


White Knuckles

by catchmeifyoucreon



Category: Casualty (TV), Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, F/M, Gaslighting, Happy Ending, M/M, Past Abuse, Slow Burn, University
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-03-04 19:29:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 80,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13371564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catchmeifyoucreon/pseuds/catchmeifyoucreon
Summary: Starting at a new college halfway through his degree at the University of Cambridge after leaving his abusive ex wasn't really Dom's plan in life. Meeting Lofty Chiltern also wasn't part of the plan, but perhaps it could be the start of something much more interesting...(Lofty/Dom, with background Jez/Mickey (Casualty), Jasmine/Morven, and Zosia/Ollie).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everyone! This fic's been a long time in the works, as it's over 70,000 words, but I hope it's worth the wait. I'll be trying to post on a regular weekly schedule from here on out. Major warnings: this fic follows on from the Holby City storyline of Isaac abusing Dom, in an AU setting, and deals heavily with the aftermath of domestic abuse (physical and emotional), including victim-blaming rhetoric and gaslighting (which are both presented as wrong within the narrative).
> 
> If you want resources about abusive or unhealthy relationships, I'd recommend reading some (or all) of Lundy Bancroft's [Why Does He Do That?](http://unityandstruggle.org/wp-content/uploads/2016/04/Lundy_Why-does-he-do-that.pdf) If you're in the UK, you can look up and contact [the National Domestic Violence Helpline](http://www.nationaldomesticviolencehelpline.org.uk/).
> 
> I've tried to make all my references to stuff specific to the University of Cambridge as clear as possible within the text, but I'll add some notes at the end of the chapters to explain anything that might not be immediately apparent. Also, though I went to Cambridge, I didn't study medicine (though I did look up as much info as possible about the structure of the medicine degree at Cambridge), so please excuse any inaccuracies in my portrayal of a medical student's workload!

Going to the club had been a bad idea: Dom knew that from the moment Zosia had suggested it. If there was the one thing the permanent residents of Cambridge and its student population could fully agree upon, it was that the city’s nightlife was uniformly terrible.

Yet here he was in the thick of things, clutching a neon blue alcopop that tasted purely of E-numbers and sugar, blinking body glitter out of his eyes, and trying to hear his own thoughts above a relentless soundtrack of songs featuring Pitbull, interspersed with classics from _The Lion King_ , and the obligatory hourly Avicii record. Clubbing in Cambridge truly was horrific.

He scanned the packed room for Zosia, and caught sight of her long, dark ponytail and blood red dress near the DJ’s booth. She was, of course, with her boyfriend Ollie: they looked as if their lips had been stuck together with superglue, and were swaying drunkenly in place as they made out. Dom screwed up his nose and glanced away –

– And there he was. Standing slightly apart from a small group of obnoxious, braying men in the centre of the room, casually sipping a lager and wearing that little, self-satisfied smirk of his. Dom’s entire body felt heavy, as if lead had replaced the marrow in his bones. Isaac’s eyes rose to meet his. There was a sickening second in which Dom couldn’t hear anything but the memory of a loud crack and Zosia screaming at him.

Then, Isaac raised an eyebrow, and took a step towards him.

Dom turned and ran, barely noticing the splash of his drink against his leg as he dropped the bottle. Running through a busy club full of drunk people attempting to dance wasn’t perhaps the brightest idea, but he ducked and dodged around flailing limbs and entwined couples, trying to reach the door before Isaac came within speaking or touching distance of him.

He swung around to check whether Isaac was still following him – and felt himself collide with something solid. Something that said, “Ow!” and then, “Hey, are you okay?”

Dom’s head swivelled back round to find a guy with a mass of curly hair and a bemused smile looking back at him.

“Oh, I – sorry, I’m sorry, I have to, I can’t –”

The guy frowned, and Dom’s heart plummeted into his stomach: the last thing he needed was more trouble. But then, the guy stepped aside and gestured for Dom to pass him by. Dom could feel himself beginning to shake, but he tried to muster a smile as he rushed past and through the foyer, ignoring the weird looks he got from the bouncer as he stumbled out onto the street.

He stood there, amongst the throng of people huddled under the awning smoking cigarettes and shivering in their crop tops and shorts – because God forbid any British person should take a coat out with them when they were sure to be out until gone two in early January.

Dom sniffed and dragged a shaking hand across his face. He hadn’t expected to react like that. He felt stupid for running, when he had every right to stay in the club too. But then, he hadn’t expected to have to see Isaac again so soon, and without Zosia or Morven at his side, at that.

“Hey, excuse me,” said a voice just behind him. Dom started, but it wasn’t Isaac’s smug, assured drawl. He turned to find the guy he’d bumped into inside the club holding out Dom’s phone. “Um, you dropped this,” he said.

“Oh.” Dom willed his hands to stop shaking as he reached out to take the phone back. “Uh, thanks.”

“You were in a bit of a rush back there,” the stranger said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Dom said, a bit too sharply.

“Right,” the guy said, his lips turning down, but he didn’t seem in any hurry to move away. Dom’s phone buzzed, and he scrambled to read it, hoping it would be from Zosia, wondering where he was. Instead, it was from an unsaved number.

_you won’t even talk to me now? everyone makes mistakes Dom. you know i still care x_

The phone slipped from his grasp and hit the floor. Dom jumped back a step as the guy who’d followed him out rushed to pick it up.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, his forehead creasing in what looked like genuine concern.

Dom took a deep breath. Meddling strangers and harassment from exes aside, it would be fine. He’d find Zosia, go back to his new room, block Isaac’s new number, and forget all about the whole night. It would be _fine_.

“I – yeah, that’s the third time you’ve asked me that.”

The guy shifted from foot to foot. “Sorry. I just – you seem a bit – I don’t know, I guess it’s none of my business.” He held Dom’s phone out again. “I don’t think it’s broken.”

“Thanks,” said Dom, softening a bit despite himself. This guy was harmless, wasn’t he? “I’m alright, really. Just an ex I didn’t want to talk to.”

The guy tilted his head a little, considering. “Must have been a pretty nasty break up.”

Dom let out a strangled noise that almost passed for a laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Dom! Over here!” Zosia’s call broke through the general hubbub. She was standing on the threshold of the club’s entrance with one arm slung across Ollie’s shoulders, her fingers hooked through the straps of her high heels. Morven was a couple of steps behind them, hand in hand with Jasmine. Relief flooded through Dom, warming his insides. He waved back at them.

“Uh, well, thanks, I guess,” he said, turning to the guy, who smiled.

“No problem,” he said. “See you around, Dom.”

He ducked under the awning and disappeared into the mass of smokers congregating on the patio of the club, just as Morven launched herself at Dom and tackled him in a bear hug.

“Dom, you disappeared!”

Dom plastered a smirk over his face and resisted the urge to cling onto her when she pulled back. “Got tired of rubbing shoulders with the hoi-polloi,” he said. “Thought I’d wait out here for you.”

Zosia’s eyes narrowed as she approached him, and he shook his head a little, handing her his phone with the text from Isaac still on the screen, as Jasmine and Morven rounded on him with gossip about a boy called Jez from first year getting with some guy from Selwyn College who’d once pissed in the fountain at Trinity, and lived to tell the tale.

“Right,” said Zosia, lips pressed together as she slipped Dom’s phone back into his pocket. “I’m going to go back with Dom, Ollie. Take my room key, yeah?”

Ollie’s brow furrowed in surprise, but he said nothing, taking the key card and ushering everyone out towards the road.

“I’m so happy you’re at our college now, Dom,” said Morven dreamily as they stepped around broken glass and spilled kebabs on the pavement. “You’ll love it here.”

“And it’s within easy staggering-home distance of all the clubs,” Jasmine pointed out as they crossed the road and arrived at the front gate of the college, an imposingly huge wooden thing with various gold lattices, rearing mythical goats and the like decorating the wall above it. Even now, in his third year at Cambridge, Dom couldn’t help but marvel at the fact that Christ’s was one of the _less_ flashy colleges.

Ollie whispered something in Zosia’s ear as he kissed her goodbye, before heading off down the side road towards Jesus, Zosia’s college. Jasmine reached up on her tiptoes and pressed the buzzer on the gate. There was a pause before they heard a key rattling, and a tiny door within the gate swung inwards.

“Thanks, Noel!” Jasmine skipped through, pulling Morven along by the hand. Noel was one of the college porters, and as such had been thoroughly briefed on the situation with Isaac by the college higher-ups. Dom did his best to avoid the man’s gaze as he hurried past him and into the first courtyard of the college. It was late, but there were still a few drunk people milling around the court, bare arms wrapped around themselves to fend off the chill in the air.

Dom’s new room was in Third Court, near the back of the college. Morven and Jasmine’s rooms were also in that courtyard, but in a different building. They group-hugged before heading their separate ways. Zosia linked arms with Dom and marched him towards his room.

He’d barely unpacked, since he’d only arrived earlier that day, but he knew Zosia well enough to know that the mess of overflowing suitcases and half-open boxes wouldn’t faze her. He flicked on a light as she gave the room a once-over.

“Big,” she said. “Do those windows open all the way?”

“I’m not going to chuck myself out, don’t worry,” Dom told her. She rolled her eyes as she untied her ponytail and dropped her heels on the floor, before stepping over to his bed and spreading herself out across it.

“So, he texted you,” she said, twisting her head to watch him as he kicked his shoes aside and took his jeans off.

“He was at the club,” Dom admitted, fixing his gaze on the floor. “I saw him.”

“What? He didn’t try to speak to you, did he?”

“No,” said Dom. “Well – he made eye contact. And he stepped forward as if he was going to come over. But I got out of there before he could get close enough to say anything.”

Zosia scrambled under his duvet – he had just managed to put a plain blue-green cover on it before she and Morven had dragged him out for the night – and threw her arms wide.

“You should go back to yours,” Dom said, feeling a guilty twinge at keeping her from her own life and relationship. “Ollie’s waiting, isn’t he?”

Zosia shook her head. “He’ll know not to wait up,” she said, patting the mattress beside her. “Come on.”

Dom let out a breath, and crawled beneath the duvet into the tiny space next to her; it was, after all, a single bed, which left them in very close quarters. She rested her head on his shoulder, her hair tickling his ear.

“Thanks, Zosh,” he mumbled.

“I’m your friend, you idiot,” she said, through a yawn. “It’s what we do.”

*

Dom woke with his torso hanging halfway off the bed, a brief thrill of panic shooting down his spine as he realised he wasn’t alone in the bed. It took him a second to remember that it was only Zosia. Her arm, splayed across his chest, was the only thing anchoring him in place. He shifted away from his best friend and pushed himself upright, checking his alarm clock on the bedside table.

It was half-past eight, otherwise known as ‘too early for this shit’. He had a meeting with his new Director of Studies – Sacha Levy, a guy he’d already been supervised by quite a bit – at eleven, but given that Sacha’s office was barely half a minute’s walk away from his own room, there was no need to panic about punctuality just yet.

Unfortunately, Zosia chose that moment to roll over in her sleep and take up the remaining sliver of space on the mattress, leaving Dom with little choice but to commit to getting up. He resisted the urge to give Zosia a rude awakening by pulling the curtains open; instead, he spent a few minutes fumbling through his belongings in the dark until he found a towel and his toiletries.

He left his door on the latch as he stepped out into the corridor and made his way down to the bathroom. It said ‘female’ on the sign, but there was a guy coming out, so it was clearly for anyone to use nowadays.

Dom’s thoughts stopped short at that, because – the guy who’d just come out of the bathroom was the same one he’d bumped into the previous night. His curls were lying flat and wet over his ears, and he was wearing a bathrobe and carrying a plastic toiletries bag, but it was definitely the same guy. When he caught sight of Dom, his face broke into a ridiculously bright smile. It was as if he’d just spotted an old friend he hadn’t seen in months.

“Dom, isn’t it?”

Dom nodded, resigning himself to what he could only imagine was the universe’s bizarre sense of humour. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m in the room second from the end.”

“Oh, so – what year are you in?” The guy looked puzzled, and Dom couldn’t blame him; it really wasn’t normal practice for students to chop and change colleges, especially in the middle of an academic year.

“Third year,” said Dom. “I do medicine. I – I moved colleges.”

“Oh, right!” Thankfully, despite all his prying last night, the guy didn’t ask why. “I’m a third-year medic too. I’m Lofty, by the way – well, my real name’s Ben, but everyone calls me Lofty.”

He fumbled with his toiletry bag, dropped it, rushed to retrieve it, and stuck out his free hand for Dom to shake as he straightened up, smiling sheepishly and wincing at his own clumsiness. Dom tried not to laugh at him outright as they shook hands. “Okay,” he said. “Nice to meet you… Lofty.”

“You too! See you, then,” said Lofty, beaming from ear to ear once more. He practically skipped off down the corridor to his own room. Dom shook his head. Was it possible for a real, live human being to be so incredibly upbeat and sincere? Not even Jasmine was that cheerful, especially not at eight-thirty in the morning.

When he got back to his room, Zosia was sprawled across his desk chair in her bra and knickers, texting Ollie.

“I can’t believe we don’t have any lectures or labs scheduled till tomorrow,” she said. “I thought we could all go for a picnic on Jesus Green.”

“A picnic? It’s colder than Antarctica out there!”

“Wear a jumper, you spoilsport!” Zosia said, poking him with her toe as he passed by to get to the mirror on his desk and brush his hair. “Ollie’s up for it.”

“Ollie would be up for having a bath in a volcano if you were also going to be there,” Dom groused. Zosia snorted.

“I’ll post in the group chat for everyone,” she said, and then inhaled a little too sharply. Dom knew that she was thinking of Arthur, whose social media profile none of them had had the heart to exclude from the chat: without him, though, the word ‘everyone’ was a misnomer.

“Okay, picnic it is,” said Dom lightly, touching her shoulder. “But after midday, I’ve got a meeting with Sacha in a bit. And there’s got to be an option for us carnivores as well as all that veggie crap.”

Zosia batted at his arm in mock-indignation, and resumed WhatsApping the gang. Five seconds later, Morven messaged back:

_can we bring some of the 1 st yrs pls????!!! they’re super adorbs i promise xxx_

Dom groaned as he read the message over Zosia’s shoulder. “Freshers, really?”

“Don’t be mean,” said Zosia. “They’ve had a whole term to acclimatise. Besides, we were in their shoes once, you know. Or have you forgotten?”

“How could I?” Dom pretended to shudder. “I also remember that we were _the worst_.”

“Speak for yourself!” Zosia spluttered, but she was grinning. “Do you have anything I can wear that isn’t last night’s clothes, by the way? I don’t fancy doing the walk of shame when I didn’t even get to have sex.”

*

Sacha Levy’s office was as eclectic as his familiar, offbeat appearance: there was a tasselled velvet lampshade propped up on a stack of hefty medical texts in one corner of the room, and the armchair he invited Dom to sit on was a violently bright patchwork fabric affair. Sacha himself was wearing a denim shirt with a pink flower embroidered on the chest pocket, and a pair of maroon corduroys.

Dom bit his lip and tried not to think cutting thoughts about his Sacha’s consistently dubious sartorial choices, and subsequently forgot to say no to the weak tea Sacha offered him. After another few minutes of small talk while his DOS tried to find all the correct paperwork, they were both sitting across from one another holding cups of milky tea, with a plate of custard creams lying on the driftwood coffee table between them.

“So, Dom, how are you finding your new college so far?”

“Well, my room’s fine, and I already have a few friends here,” Dom said, trying not to wince as he sipped at his milky tea – actually, had a teabag even so much as touched the sides?

“Oh, Morven and Jasmine, right?” Sacha asked, taking two of the biscuits and balancing them on the arm of his chair.

“Yeah. And I met Lofty. Um, Ben. We’re on the same corridor.”

“Ah, well you’ve got yourself a good crowd there!” Sacha exclaimed. “Now, why don’t we get some of the bureaucracy out of the way?”

They spent nearly fifteen minutes filling in various forms and disclaimers. Finally, Sacha leant back in his chair and gave Dom an assessing look.

Dom tried to tell himself that he’d been prepared to see Sacha again, for the first time since he’d broken down during a supervision with him the previous term, and admitted what had really been going on between him and Isaac. Now, Sacha had that infuriatingly _kind_ look in his eyes: the sort that seemed to radiate pity, compassion, and empathy, and all those other emotions Dom couldn’t deal with people showing him at this precise moment.

“So,” he said, spreading his hands out in what Dom assumed was a conflict-avoidance method he’d picked up from a pop-psychology magazine. “Obviously, I know things have been bad for you these past few months.”

Dom made a non-committal noise.

“Now, we’ve already let the porters know your situation, so they’ll be on hand if you need them. You have the number for the Porters’ Lodge, right?”

Dom nodded, and concentrated hard on the contours of the NHS logo on the mug Sacha had given him.

“Great. And of course, as your DOS, I’m also responsible for your safety and welfare, so please don’t hesitate to come to me or shoot me an email if you need to talk about anything.”

“I won’t,” said Dom. “Hesitate, I mean.”

Sacha gave him a pleased look. “Now, is there anything you wanted to ask me, or anything else you think I should know?”

“No,” said Dom. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Right, well, I think that’s all for now. Don’t forget to take your lecture and lab timetables,” said Sacha, standing up as Dom did, and taking his mug back. Dom nodded and bolted for the exit, only to be drawn to a halt with his hand on the doorknob by Sacha’s voice, asking:

“Also, Dom, um – are you okay?”

He snorted a bit, unable to stop himself. “People keep asking me that, lately.”

Sacha was by the sink at the back of the room, rinsing the mugs out. He gave Dom a sad smile. “Are they wrong to ask?”

“I’m fine,” said Dom. “Thank you, Sacha.” He left before Sacha had the chance to say anything else, and closed the door firmly behind him.

*

Zosia turned up at his door just before one, armed with two carrier bags filled to the brim with food and alcohol.

“Day-drinking so early in the term?” said Dom, raising an eyebrow as he wrapped his navy-blue scarf around his neck.

“Well, if you don’t want any…” Zosia teased, waving the bags back and forth. Dom grabbed his key card and his wallet, and shut the door behind him.

“Now, you know I didn’t say that!”

He took one of the bags from her, and they ambled down to the self-styled ‘Japanese Renaissance garden’ in the middle of Third Court – more accurately described as a large circle of gravel and scrubby hedges, with a sign warning the tourists to keep off.

Morven was waiting outside with Jasmine, and some guys Dom assumed were the freshers Morven had told them about: they were both wearing fake-fur lined parkas from Primark (he knew because he had one too, buried deep in the back of his wardrobe), zipped up to the chin, but were still shivering.

“Hey!” Morven waved them over. “Dom, Zosia, meet Jez and Damon! They’re first year medics. Please let’s try not to make them doubt their entire life decision to come to Cambridge for at least another term!” She gave Dom a pointed look, which he refused to dignify with any form of acknowledgement.

They met Ollie at Jesus Green, a strip of parkland only a few minutes’ walk from Christ’s. Despite the wintry atmosphere and the frost on the grass, there were a few hardy souls trying to make the most of the outdoors: one man was valiantly attempting to light an honest-to-God barbeque.

Morven, though not as ambitious as Barbeque Man, was ever prepared, and had brought blankets to lay on the grass.

“You are an angel,” said Dom, who had not been particularly thrilled at the idea of sitting directly on the frosty ground in temperatures barely above zero.

“I know,” she said smugly, and began unpacking the picnic food. “Now, how many of you like red pepper hummus?”

Damon nodded in earnest, at the same moment Jez, Jasmine, Dom, and Ollie responded with identically horrified expressions (Dom and Ollie added some gagging noises, for effect). Zosia rolled her eyes to the heavens.

“I bought ham and cheese too! God forbid I force the hideous spectre of vegetarianism on anyone.” She coughed. “Dom.”

Dom gave her his most innocent, wide-eyed look. “Who, me? I love you being vegetarian – I get to eat all the Haribos, and you don’t even get to complain about it.”

*

His first week and a half at his new college passed quickly, with hours spent in labs, lectures, and libraries. It all felt reassuringly normal, even if he was now based in a different place: all his labs and lectures were run by the Faculty of Medicine anyway, so it was pretty much the same as always on that score.

He was doing some of the same modules as Zosia, and sat next to her at lectures, keeping up a snide running commentary on the various eccentricities of their lecturers. He watched reality shows illegally on catch-up TV with Morven and Jasmine on Saturday night, and bumped into Lofty a few times – literally – in their tiny shared kitchen as they both tried to prepare food without injuring themselves or each other. Dom tried not to snap or be rude if Lofty accidentally elbowed him in the ribs while struggling to return his pesto to the fridge, and Lofty persisted in being perpetually cheerful and friendly, no matter what Dom did or said.

The pokey college library at Christ’s, in what could only be attributed to a conspiracy to encourage its members to spend every waking _and_ sleeping hour engaged in their studies, was open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. It was nearing one in the morning as Dom finally emailed off his weekly pathology essay to his supervisor, Jac Naylor. It was officially due in later that morning, but he didn’t want to risk missing his alarm and incurring Jac’s wrath by submitting his work late.

He printed a copy as well, so he could look over it before his supervision with Jac tomorrow afternoon. As he walked to the printer room at the back of the library to collect his work, his phone vibrated in the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms. He grabbed it and opened the message as he entered the back room, stopping dead in the middle of the room when he saw the message.

_Dom how are u? sorry i didn’t get the chance to say last week, but i really do miss you. we should talk about what happened properly, u know we both messed up. I x_

His heart lurched unpleasantly against his ribcage as he looked down at the screen. How the fuck had he forgotten to block Isaac’s new number after the club? He took a deep breath, but it did nothing to stop the slightly nauseous anxiety that was creeping down the back of his throat. _We both messed up._

“Dom?”

He started, and turned to find Lofty leaning against the doorframe, a slightly cautious smile on his face.

“Oh,” said Dom, quickly pocketing his phone and shuffling over to the black and white printer. “Hi. You’re here late.”

“So are you,” Lofty pointed out, stepping into the room. Dom’s hands were shaking a little as he grabbed his essay from the tray. He forced himself to relax his grip before he crumpled the paper.

“Had a deadline for Jac Naylor,” he said, by way of explanation. Lofty’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into his curls as the name registered.

“Jac Naylor supervises you?”

“Yeah,” said Dom. “She’s Jasmine from second year’s half-sister, too.”

“Really?” Lofty’s eyes widened. “I didn’t realise!”

“I don’t think they know each other that well, but yeah. Jac’s terrifying. But she _is_ brilliant.”

“Wow, I don’t know whether to be jealous or to pity you.” Lofty grabbed his own printouts, and fluttered the pages. “I was just finishing up some stuff for psychology.”

“I’d be rubbish at psychology,” Dom joked. “I don’t do feelings.”

“It’s not all about getting in touch with feelings and emotions, you know,” said Lofty. “There are some pie charts involved too.”

Dom felt a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “And who doesn’t love a good pie chart?”

“Exactly,” said Lofty. “Only one step below actual pie, right?”

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Dom with a smirk.

“Are you walking back now?” Lofty asked, and when Dom nodded, he said: “Me too, just need to grab my coat.”

Lofty chattered happily about nothing to him the entire walk back to their corridor, his coat slung over his arm although the night was cold.

Dom couldn’t help but envy the ease with which Lofty made conversation, even about stuff that wasn’t hugely important; he spent the walk feeling as though he was balancing on a thin ledge of anxiety, just waiting for his mouth to betray him and push him off into thin air. Surely it wouldn’t take long for it to become obvious that he wasn’t very good – and certainly not _nice_ – company. He was usually ready with a cutting comment or a witty comeback, but if there was one thing Isaac had been right about, it was that Dom was just plain _boring_ without the ability to be mean.

Lofty didn’t seem particularly deterred by his monosyllabic contributions: when they reached their second-floor corridor, he paused at his door and smiled back at Dom.

“It was nice speaking with you,” he said.

“I doubt that,” said Dom. Lofty gave him a confused look, so he added: “You have to admit I’m not really a stunning conversation partner.”

Lofty’s expression flickered, and Dom braced himself for a mocking laugh or a bored shrug. Instead, Lofty said: “I meant it, I enjoyed talking to you. Besides, I’m not exactly Oscar Wilde, am I?”

Dom snorted.  “Who is? It was good to talk to you, too.”

“Night, then, Dom,” said Lofty. He pressed his key card to his door and left Dom in the hall, blinking at the little ‘welcome’ sign Blu-tacked to the noticeboard on his door.

*

On Friday, his mother phoned. He’d texted her a couple of times since he’d arrived back in Cambridge, but he’d been trying to avoid the inevitable ‘just-checking-up-on-you’ call.

“Mum, I’m fine,” he told her for the fourth time, putting her on speaker so he could file his Bioinformatics lecture notes at the same time. This was going to take a while, he could feel it. “Really, I’m fine.”

“And your new college is good? Have you settled in?”

“Yes, Mum. I’ve been pretty busy or I would have called earlier,” he lied.

“Seen Zosia much?”

“Almost every day,” he said. “We go to most of the same Pathology lectures.”

“I’m glad to hear it! She’s a good girl, is Zosia.”

Dom was glad he’d refrained from telling his mother about the time Zosia had made him distract the porters at Jesus with a story about his tragically misplaced sunglasses, while she raced across the grass – ignoring four separate signs warning her against it – to clamber on top of the life-size horse statue in the middle of the courtyard and stand upright on its back, prompting a chorus of ‘We are the Champions’ from a small crowd of gathered tourists.

“Yeah, she’s the best,” he said.

“And have you made any new friends?” his mother asked worriedly.

“I’ve met a few people,” he said. “Some freshers. And there’s a guy on my corridor.”

“Is he nice?”

“Sickeningly pleasant at all times,” Dom confirmed, and smothered a pleased smile at the sound of his mother’s laughter over the phone. “I don’t know how he does it.”

“Ooh! What’s his name?”

“Don’t say ‘ooh’ like that, it makes me nervous. He’s called Lofty. Well, his name’s Ben, but apparently everyone calls him Lofty.”

“Why?”

He frowned. “I actually have no idea.”

“Well, you’d better find out, hadn’t you?”

Dom rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, Mum.”

“And… and you haven’t… haven’t heard from…” his mother wasn’t able to finish her question, but it didn’t matter: Dom had already stiffened in his seat.

He wished people wouldn’t ask him about Isaac, or talk about him, or even _think_ about him, really. It wasn’t that what had happened with Isaac was something he never needed or wanted to talk about, but he hated that other people had to bring it up out of the blue. It was even worse knowing that it was only because they cared.

“No, I haven’t,” he lied. “Not a thing.”

“Okay, good,” his mum said, before adding worriedly: “That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he said. It was a good thing, he supposed. Or at least, it would be, if it was true. But his mum would only panic if she knew, and it wasn’t like Isaac was stalking him or anything. It was just a couple of texts.

“How’s Dad?” he asked quickly.

He knew that it sounded like a weak attempt to change the subject, but his mum let it pass. Maybe she didn’t _really_ want to talk about Isaac either.

“Same as ever, love! He’s asking after you.”

Dom sincerely doubted that, but kept the thought to himself and decided to appreciate that the five-minute anecdote she launched into about his dad’s antics at Ikea gave him time to finish all his filing.

“…and he came home with _seven_ of those mini pencils they have, you know the ones, they give you splinters if you’re not careful. Oh, I was mortified – as if we don’t have enough junk in the house!”

Dom clicked the lever down on his notes in their file, and laughed.

“Well, at least you won’t be short of things to write your shopping lists with for a couple of months,” he said.

“True,” his mum said. “I suppose I ought to let you get on, Dazzle. I know you’re a busy bee!”

“ _Mum_.”

“You enjoy your day, love! And…” she paused, as if considering whether to verbalize what she was thinking, then said: “You’ll be careful, won’t you?”

“I’m meant to be writing a couple of essays about how germs work, Mum: I’m not exactly wrangling alligators in the Outback.”

“You know what I mean,” she said reprovingly. Dom sighed, suddenly wishing it was time to crawl back into bed and forget the world for a few hours.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I do.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zosia has a problem, and Dom meets a friend of Lofty's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter include pregnancy, discussions of mental health, and difficult family dynamics.

*

On Monday morning, Dom waited outside the doors until their first lecture was well underway, but Zosia didn’t show. He sent her a text and turned his phone to silent as he slipped inside the lecture hall, trying to look inconspicuous as he ducked into an empty seat near the back of the room.

She still hadn’t texted back by the time it was over, and she wasn’t at their next lecture either. Dom called Morven as he headed back into town to get lunch.

“Have you heard from Zosia today?” he asked.

“No,” said Morven. “Why, wasn’t she with you at lectures?”

“No, and she hasn’t replied to my texts either.”

“Maybe she’s caught a bug and she’s sleeping it off?” Morven suggested. “I’m sure she’s fine – give her a call later this afternoon. Hey, a few of us are at Yo! Sushi about to get lunch, do you want to join us?”

Dom was only a couple of minutes away at that point, so he agreed and hung up, though no less worried. He rang Zosia’s number, but it went straight to voicemail. He texted to let her know he was going to be meeting Morven for lunch, in case she decided she wanted to join them.

At the sushi restaurant, Morven waved at him from her swivel stool near the far-end of the conveyor belt of raw fish and vegetables. Jasmine was sitting next to her, and the freshers who’d been at the picnic were there too. Dom raised a smile for them as he dropped onto a stool next to Jasmine.

“Still not got through to Zosia?” Jasmine asked. Dom shook his head.

“I’ll go see her later if she’s still not turned up.”

Jasmine patted his arm, and said loudly: “Now, who’s up for eating their entire body weight in sushi?”

The answer appeared to be everyone: Dom marvelled at the sheer quantity of popcorn shrimp and avocado rolls Jez and Damon managed to consume between them, all while talking a mile a minute. He found himself listening to Damon’s incredibly detailed – some might say _unnecessarily_ detailed – account of his drunken experience at the Fresher’s bop (despite having been at university for less than three weeks, he’d already adopted Cambridge’s buzzword for ‘shit school disco with added alcohol’).

Jez laughed at him. “You’re such a lightweight!”

“Says the guy who got rejected from a club because you were singing so off-key the bouncers assumed you had to be off your face!” Damon retorted.

“What were you singing, Jez?” Jasmine asked.

“Yeah, what exactly _were_ you singing, again?” Damon said, smirking. Jez buried his face in his hands.

“Alright, alright, just because I get a bit patriotic when I’m tipsy,” he said.

“You were bellowing the Welsh national anthem like you were at a World Cup final,” said Damon.

“Chance would be a fine thing,” said Jez.

Dom and Morven looked at each other with the expression they always reserved for conversations about football, but Jasmine was already leaning forward excitedly, bursting to talk about the team she played on for the college.

Dom’s phone buzzed just as Jasmine – at Damon’s request – brought out her own phone to show him videos and photos of her and her team at the most recent inter-collegiate match she’d been in.

“And I’m probably never going to manage to get on it,” she was saying, “but I’m going to be trying out for the uni team this term.”

“Don’t put yourself down!” Damon said immediately. “You’ll smash it!” Dom could practically see the hearts in his eyes, and tried not to roll his own, without much success. He glanced away to the message he’d just received – from Ollie, of all people.

_Hey mate, have you heard from Zosia recently?_

_Not since Saturday night,_ he typed back. _She wasn’t at lectures. Why?_

A moment later, Ollie replied: _Think she’s avoiding my calls. I’m away till Thurs in St Ives doing clinical stuff, will you go see her?_

 _Of course_ , Dom wrote back. He put his phone in his pocket and shoved the last of his chicken karaage into his mouth. “Got to go, sorry!” he said. Morven gave him a disapproving look for speaking with his mouth full, and he made an effort to chew and swallow before he spoke again. “It’s Zosia,” he said, leaning over to whisper in her ear as he extricated himself from the group.

“Is she okay?” Morven hissed back. Dom gave her a light kiss on the forehead.

“That’s what I’m going to go find out,” he said.

*

Zosia didn’t answer the first few times he knocked on her door. “Zosia! It’s me. I know something’s up, even Ollie’s texting me.”

There was a long pause, then he heard the unmistakable sound of human life reluctantly shuffling about. Finally, Zosia pulled the door back.

“Oh my God,” said Dom. Tact had never been his strongest suit, but she really did look dreadful: her eyes were ringed with grey circles, and bloodshot, as if she’d been crying, and her hair was lank and unwashed. She was wearing a threadbare grey hoodie she’d nicked from Dom back in their first year, and a pair of what looked like Ollie’s boxer shorts.

“You’d better come in, I suppose,” she said.

“What’s going on, Zosh? Are you ill?” Both of her windows were thrown open wide, and the fake, flowery scent of cheap air-freshener didn’t quite mask the lingering smell of vomit. Dom watched her edge her way back over to her unmade bed.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Well.” She sat down heavily on the creased duvet, and laughed humourlessly. “I’m two weeks late,” she said.

It took him a second, but when her meaning sank in, he let out a shocked laugh of his own. “What? Could it not just be work stress?” He knew from Morven (and basic biology) that quite a few people had periods that were affected by the intensity and pressure of Cambridge terms. But Zosia shook her head.

“I’m regular as clockwork, usually,” she said. “I thought it might be that at first, but I’ve never been this late. And I’ve been noticing some other changes. I started throwing up yesterday.”

“Christ,” said Dom. He went over to the bed and sat down beside her. “Have you taken a test?”

Again, she shook her head. “I don’t want it to be real,” she said, in a small voice. Dom wished he could tell her it wasn’t – that it was all down to stress and an unfortunately-timed stomach bug. He wished he could smooth out the lines of fear and worry on her face and make her smile at the ridiculousness of the idea that she was pregnant.

Instead, he put an arm around her shoulder. “Why don’t I go get a test from Sainsbury’s tonight?” he said. “That way you’ll have it, even if you don’t want to take it straight away.”

Zosia was quiet for a minute. Then, she turned and wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her head in the collar of his shirt. “What did I do to deserve you?” she mumbled. Dom stroked her hair, mentally adding dry shampoo to the list of things he’d need to buy from Sainsbury’s that evening.

“You know full well it’s me who doesn’t deserve you,” he said. “Don’t even pretend.”

*

Of course, it was just his luck that he managed to run into Lofty in the healthcare and hygiene aisle.

“Oh, hi Dom!” said Lofty, dropping a bottle of mouthwash into his shopping basket, cheerfully oblivious to the strangled noise Dom had just made on spotting him.

“Hey,” he said weakly, trying to be inconspicuous as he shifted his shopping around in an attempt to cover the main object of his trip with other miscellaneous items.

“How’s it going?” Lofty asked, then blinked as he caught sight of the pregnancy test still awkwardly, obviously lying just in view beneath a box of tissues and a two-litre bottle of water. “Oh, sorry – was that a bad question?”

“Um, no, it’s fine,” said Dom. “It’s – well, it’s not exactly – I mean, it’s not for me, obviously, that would be a medical impossibility, and anyway, I – someone I know..." He cut himself off, painfully aware of how much his hopeless babbling sounded like Arthur. He tried to tuck away the sharp twinge of loss, and finished: "Well, you know.”

He could feel the blood pooling in his cheeks, heating his entire face, but Lofty nodded as though all of that had been a perfectly sensible string of words for Dom to come out with. “I hope they get the result they’re hoping for,” he said.

“I hope so too,” said Dom. He’d left Zosia staring blankly at the anatomy posters on her wall, cocooned in her duvet and fidgeting with the sleeve of her borrowed hoodie. He’d wanted so desperately for her to not have to deal with this.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” said Lofty gently, and he laid a hand on Dom’s shoulder reassuringly as he passed by. “I hope things work out.”

“Thanks,” Dom said, eyes fixed on the medicine shelves, refusing to do something as weird as turning to watch Lofty walk away.

He could almost still feel the weight of Lofty’s hand on his shoulder as he arrived back at Zosia’s room in Jesus. No one, except his very closest friends, had touched him so casually since – well. Was Lofty his friend? He supposed so: they got on, at any rate. It was probably impossible for someone not to get on with Lofty, given that he was so unfailingly kind.

Zosia answered the door to him with a glint of determination in her dark eyes. “I’m going to do it tonight,” she said. “I need to know.”

“Okay,” said Dom. “Probably a good job I bought this, then.” He nodded his head to the water bottle balanced in the crook of his elbow. Zosia rolled her eyes, but took it and started drinking.

Half an hour later, they were in the communal bathroom the floor above Zosia’s, where there was less chance of anyone Zosia knew barging in. Dom was perched on the wide window ledge that sat adjacent to the sinks, helpfully running a tap.

“Okay, I think I might – there’s still no one else here, right?” Zosia called out from her cubicle.

“Nope, just us,” Dom confirmed.

In a situation with less potential emotional fallout, he would have been unable to stop himself laughing at the absurdity of it all.

When she finally flushed the toilet and emerged, Dom jumped to his feet.

“Okay?”

She gave him a flat look. “I was pissing on a stick. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Yeah,” she sighed, shoulders sagging as she placed the test down on the sink to wash her hands. “I just need to know, that’s all. I don’t want to have to wait.”

“Only a couple of minutes,” Dom said, but he knew that if he was in her position, he’d be climbing the walls before those minutes had passed.

“Let’s get back to my room,” said Zosia. “I don’t want to have a breakdown here.”

They rushed back down to Zosia’s room; Zosia kept the pregnancy test tucked up the sleeve of her hoodie, making sure she didn’t catch an accidental glimpse of it. When they were safely back behind a locked door, she looked at him as if to find out what to do next.

“On the count of three?” he asked. She took a sharp breath in, then nodded. “One, two… three.”

The world seemed to halt as Zosia looked down at the test. Dom couldn’t read the expression frozen on her face. Then, she walked over to the bin by her desk and dropped the stick into it.

“That’s that, then,” she said. “I’m pregnant.”

Dom didn’t know what to say to her. It would be pointless to try telling her the test could be wrong, or that everything was going to be fine. What _was_ there to say, apart from whatever she wanted him to say?

She sat down on her bed stiffly. Dom sat beside her, their shoulders touching. She wouldn’t look at him. When she spoke, her voice cracked a little.

“What do I do now, Dom?”

Out of him, her, and Arthur, Zosia had almost always been the one who’d seemed most in control, even when she was spiralling right out of it. She’d been the last to join their trio – in the first year of sixth form, a good few years after Arthur and Dom met in year nine – but she had instantly become the person they couldn’t live without.

It was her unflinching, non-judgemental advice and her clear-sighted solutions to massive problems that had got Dom through some of the most horrific, difficult times of his life. She’d helped him deal with his first serious boyfriend dumping him for the increasingly fanciful string of lies Dom couldn’t stop stringing for him; she’d been there with him through their blistering, unrelenting grief when Arthur died; and she’d finally made him see Isaac for what he really was. But now, she was reduced to asking Dom for _his_ help – and he didn’t have a clue what he could do to make it better.

“I think maybe you should call Ollie,” he said. Zosia’s shoulders dropped, and she shook her head.

“I can’t,” she said. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t tell him I’ve fucked up this badly.”

“You haven’t!” Dom said fiercely. “Look at me, Zosia.” He waited until she’d raised her head and turned to face him, eyes red-rimmed and full of unshed tears. “This isn’t your fault, or Ollie’s, or anyone’s. It’s just something that’s happened. And it might be hell to deal with, but it’s going to be even worse if you try to deal with it on your own. If you’ve tried to drum anything into my skull these past few years, it’s been that.”

Zosia was quiet for a few minutes, her ragged breathing the only sound in the room.

“I didn’t want it to happen this way,” she said eventually. “I always thought – me and Ollie, we even talked about it – that we’d get engaged soon, get married out of college. Kids maybe when we were thirty, if I was… I can’t have a kid, I can’t give this up. I can’t come off my meds. I can’t do it, and I wanted to, with him. But not like this!”

“I know,” Dom said, and reached for her hand. They tangled fingers, and Zosia squeezed hard. “You don’t have to do anything tonight,” he said. “Let’s sleep on it.”

“You’re staying?” she said.

Dom fixed her with a hard stare. “I wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else,” he said. “Even if you do actually smell a bit gross right now.”

Her mouth twitched, and he kept his eyes on her until she broke down in helpless laughter, which turned into sobs. They fell asleep with their foreheads pressing together, brushing each other’s tears from their faces.

Curled up around each other like children on Zosia’s duvet, Dom figured they could they could perhaps fall asleep to the flimsy idea that they didn’t have to grow up, pretend for one more night that they didn’t have to wake to face adult choices, decisions that would affect the rest of their lives, and the lives of others besides. For a few hours, at least, they could just let it go.

*

Zosia felt well enough to shower, dress, and come along to lectures the following morning, but had to duck out halfway through the second to throw up in the nearest toilets.

“Some people don’t even _get_ morning sickness,” she complained to Dom over peppermint tea and ginger biscuits in the café at Addenbrookes’ hospital, before their afternoon clinical session with Mo Effanga.

“Mm, just your luck,” said Dom. “Are you going to call Ollie?”

“I can’t tell him this over the phone, can I?”

“No, I suppose not. But you should probably let him know you’re not avoiding him because you hate him,” Dom pointed out. “Tell him you’ve not been well.”

“Hm,” said Zosia, breaking a biscuit in half and nibbling at a corner. “We never really talked about what we’d do if this happened.”

“He’s going to support you no matter what, you know that, right?”

Her fingers clenched around her cup. “I can’t help thinking – you know, if I wasn’t – if I didn’t have – if my bipolar –”

“Hey!” Dom cut her off. “You know there’s a lot more to this than just your bipolar. Not that that wouldn’t be reason enough on its own. There’ll be other chances, Zosh. One day, you’ll be ready.”

“You’re right,” she said. “Ugh, if my dad finds out… he’ll be insufferable.”

“Well, you don’t have to tell _him_ ,” said Dom, wrinkling his nose in sympathy. Zosia’s dad didn’t usually require an excuse to be insufferable; refusing to give him ammunition was probably the best course in any given situation.

Zosia shuddered. “God, no,” she said. “He left me a voicemail the other week saying that he was working with a guy who was a much better match for me than Ollie, ‘financially as well as socially’, and did I want him to set up a meeting between the two of us?”

“Wow.” Dom drew the word out, pulling a face. “I thought my dad was bad. At least he’s never tried to play Cupid.”

Zosia gave him a wan smile; one of the reasons they’d originally bonded in sixth-form was their competitive urge to share (and often embellish) the worst stories about their respective dads’ behaviour. That sense of competition had soon developed into a weary camaraderie, however: especially now, when they both lived away from home most of the time, and rarely had to deal with their fathers’ shit first-hand.

“Well, he doesn’t try that often, thank God,” said Zosia, then paled and put a hand over her mouth. “I feel sick again.”

“Try to eat something,” Dom suggested. She glared at him, and he shrugged. “At least you won’t be throwing up on an empty stomach.”

The biscuit she threw at him left crumbs in his eyebrows.

*

In addition to being a terrifying force against humanity and an utterly unsympathetic supervisor, Jac Naylor was one of the world’s leaders in cardiothoracic research and surgery. As such, all of Dom’s supervisions with her took place at bizarre hours, whenever Jac could fit an hour of teaching in between her almost inhuman work schedule. As a result, it was around half-ten at night when Dom finally arrived back at college.

Jac’s supervisions always left him feeling like an ant that had been standing for hours underneath a magnifying glass in scorching weather, so he’d called in at Sainsbury’s to grab a bar of cheap dark chocolate as a pick-me-up, and he planned on checking his mail at his pigeonhole in the back of the Porter’s Lodge, before curling up in bed with some dreadful reality TV show or other.

There were two porters sitting behind the desk as he went into the Porter’s Lodge. Noel and Charlie were both slightly inept do-gooders on the surface, but Dom had seen them erupt into righteous fury as they raced from their desk to scold tourists who dared to even put a toe on the grass, and he was under no such illusions.

“Hi,” he said, knowing that to ignore them would be plain rude. Noel and Charlie murmured greetings back at him, and he passed by to the pigeonholes where student mail was sorted. In his own, he found a flyer for a play and a printed note about dealing with insomnia and work stress from Essie Harrison, the college nurse. He threw both in the recycling bin as he went to leave, and nearly bumped into Jasmine, wearing her mud-stained football kit.

“Oh, hey,” he said. “I’ve just finished up a supo with your sister.”

“Half-sister,” Jasmine corrected. “And you’ll probably be seeing her more this term than I will all year.”

“I thought you were getting to know each other a bit since Christmas?” asked Dom. Morven usually refused to gossip about Jasmine with him, so he didn’t know as much as he would have liked, but he was privy to the information that Jasmine had spent an awkward Christmas Eve having dinner with Jac at her house.

Jasmine scrunched up her nose.

“Well, I wanted to see her more, but she’s impossible. She always makes me feel stupid for wanting any kind of relationship with her.”

“We’ve all got a family member a bit like that,” Dom said, waiting with her as she grabbed her own stack of unread mail and shoved it into her rainbow tie-dyed rucksack.

“Yeah, the only problem is, she’s kind of the only family member I have, full stop.”

Dom blinked at her. “Really?”

Jasmine shrugged, scuffing the toe of her studded trainers against the floor. “Yeah, really. I guess I thought – well, it doesn’t matter.”

“It clearly does a bit,” said Dom. He hadn’t realised Jac was all Jasmine had left; that seemed too harsh a fate for someone as gentle and kind-hearted as Jasmine.

“It doesn’t make a difference to her,” said Jasmine. “Maybe I should do the same modules as you next year, try to land her as my supervisor.”

“Something tells me there’s better ways of getting her to spend time with you,” said Dom dryly, hooking his arm through hers as they walked out of the Porter’s Lodge.

“Oh yeah, like what?” Jasmine challenged, eyes shining as she looked up at him.

“Well, I hadn’t thought it that far through,” Dom confessed. “Maybe call her?” Jasmine shook her head with a little laugh.

“It’s not a big deal,” she said after a moment. “I’ll learn to live with it. I have for this long. Besides, now I’ve got Morv: she’s as good as family.”

“Don’t forget me,” said Dom, poking her in the ribs and making her squeal indignantly, twisting away from him. “I’m officially appointing myself as your big brother, starting now.”

They parted ways in Third Court, after Dom had made the decision to gift Jasmine the chocolate he’d just bought. The way she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him as she accepted it just about made up for the sugar rush Dom was being deprived of through the goodness of his own heart; he headed up to his room, wondering if he might have a bag of chocolate buttons stashed away in a drawer somewhere.

As he passed Lofty’s room, the door opened and a plump, red-headed woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties stepped out, holding a mug with a teddy bear pattern on it. She stopped and smiled at him as if she knew him from somewhere.

“Hi,” she said, almost expectantly. Dom heaved an inward sigh, trying not to think about how loudly his bed and the latest series of _I’m a Celebrity_ … were calling out to him.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Dom, I live down that end of the corridor.”

“Dom, it’s good to meet you,” the woman said, still smiling. Dom wondered if all the people Lofty knew were so damn sunny and cheerful. “I’m Robyn,” she continued, “I’m staying with Lofty for a couple of days.”

“Oh, right,” said Dom. Girlfriend, she had to be, then. “Are you at the university?”

“No!” she laughed. “Lofty’s the brains of this outfit. I do a nursing postgrad at Anglia Ruskin.”

“Pretty sure that takes brains too,” said Dom. In his first year, he’d joined in with the casual Cambridge habit of denigrating people who went to the _other_ Cambridge university, Anglia Ruskin – until he’d been taken to task for it by Arthur, who’d pointed out that a degree was a degree, which was more than what Dom would get if he didn’t stop laughing at other people and get on with his own work.

Despite his altered opinions, however, Dom had never actually met an Anglia Ruskin student before, given that their main campus was an entire _fifteen-minute walk_ in the opposite direction to the town, and he had little reason to hang out there, however worthy and hard-working the students were.

“Did you do an undergrad there too?” he asked, instead of relaying any of that to her and looking like a complete elitist snob.

“No, I did an Open University course,” she said. “Turns out to be quite handy when you’ve got a baby to look after.”

A baby? Lofty had a _baby?_ Dom felt his jaw drop open without his consent and snapped it shut, wading through his brain for the right words: he was acutely aware that he had no hope of finding them.

“Oh – uh, yeah, I – I can imagine,” he said. Maybe that was why Lofty had been so understanding about the pregnancy test the other day in Sainsbury’s; he had first-hand experience with parenting.

Robyn raised an eyebrow at him. “Can you really?” she said, a teasing smirk on her face. He flailed, stammering something incomprehensible even to himself for a few seconds, before she took pity on him and gestured with the mug she was holding. “I was about to make myself a cup of tea before Lofty gets back. Join me?”

They crowded into the tiny kitchen and Dom stole a stray cup for himself from the draining board as Robyn put the kettle on.

“So, you’re in Lofty’s year, right?” she said. “He mentioned you’d moved in this term.”

“Yeah,” Dom said, itching to pull the sleeves of his shirt down over his fingers and pick at the seams. “I had to move colleges. But I knew a few people here anyway, so I’m not starting from scratch.”

“The college thing is still so weird to me,” said Robyn, popping a teabag in Dom’s filched mug after putting one in her own. “It’s like having thirty different universities in the same town all at once. Which college did you go to before?”

Dom blinked. “Downing,” he said.

“Did you not like it there?” Robyn asked. Dom paused long enough that the kettle boiled, and Robyn grimaced as she rushed to pour the water into their cups. “Sorry, tell me to keep my nose out if you like, I know I’m a busybody.”

Dom was tempted to tell her that, yes, she really was prying too far into his business, but he liked her, so he said: “No, it’s fine. I don’t really want to talk about it, though.”

“Fair enough,” she said lightly, handing him his tea. “What are your courses this year?” Dom told her about his pathology and bioinformatics work as they used some of Lofty’s milk and took turns fishing their teabags out of their cups.

They took their tea to Lofty’s room, which was messier than Dom had expected. There was a pile of psychology and _National Geographic_ magazines on the coffee table, which Robyn unceremoniously dumped on Lofty’s bed. She did the same with the shirts draped across one of the chairs, and gestured for Dom to sit down. There was a travel cot folded up near the wardrobe, light blue with little swallows painted on the sides.

“How old is your daughter?” Dom asked.

“Nearly two, now,” said Robyn, breaking into a smile. “I would have brought her to stay too, but my mum only lives in Fulbourn, so she’s having her till Saturday. Besides, I’m living near the campus down by Mill Road, so it’s not as if Lofty never sees her during term.”

Dom smiled. “And how long have you and Lofty been together?”

Robyn’s face crinkled. “Oh, we’re –”

The door swung open, and she broke off as the door swung open and Lofty entered the room with a full Sainsbury’s bag-for-life. His gaze flickered between Robyn and Dom, and then he smiled.

“Hi, guys,” he said. “You’ve met Robyn, then, Dom?”

Dom nodded. “I should probably leave you to it,” he said, making to stand.

“You don’t have to go!” Lofty protested. Dom shrugged.

“Thanks, but I’m pretty tired. I’ve only just come back from a supervision with Jac, you know how it is.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Dom,” said Robyn. Before he knew it, she’d stepped forward and wrapped him in a fierce hug.

“You too,” said Dom, not entirely surprised to find that he meant it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who commented and left kudos on the first chapter! 
> 
> Some quick notes: Porters are college security, and they also do administrative tasks, give information to tourists and visitors, and help with out-of-hours student problems. They're based within each college at a Porters' Lodge (or Plodge), usually near the main entrance. Some of the bigger colleges like St John's have multiple Porters' Lodges. The Plodge is where students pick up their mail from pigeonholes. Anglia Ruskin is Cambridge's other university.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dom reveals more than he wanted to after arguing with Jez, and Sacha does his best to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter include: discussion of pregnancy and abortion, victim-blaming, mentions of racism and Neo-Nazis, grief, and the aftermath of abuse.

“I told him,” said Zosia, dropping into the chair opposite him at the Grad Café in the University Centre; they’d decided to meet there, since their Monday morning lectures had been rescheduled at the last minute to take place in the halls just around the corner. Dom pushed one of the marshmallows decorating the side of his hot chocolate across the table to her.

“So, what now?”

“I’ve got a doctor’s appointment in an hour, and hopefully I’ll get referred for an abortion from there. Should be about a fortnight’s wait,” she said, popping the marshmallow into her mouth.

“And Ollie’s okay with everything?”

“Yeah,” said Zosia. “I suppose you were right, I knew he would be. I was just being ridiculous.”

“No, you were just panicking,” said Dom. “There’s a difference.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter now,” she said. “Onwards and upwards. I’m going to go get a sandwich.”

He watched her poring over the small selection of slightly stale lunch options, finally choosing a panini, and pairing it with an Innocent smoothie.

“How’s the morning sickness?” he asked as she tucked into her food with fervour. She shook her head, eyes slightly wide, still chewing.

“This is the first day I’ve not felt sick at the thought of food,” she said when her mouth was no longer full. “Don’t jinx it.”

Dom put his hands up in a placatory gesture. “I won’t,” he said. “Although you might regret wolfing all that down in three seconds flat.”

Zosia flipped him off, resuming the attack on her sandwich.

Dom’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at it absently. _i’m in town this week, why don’t –_

His thumb froze midway towards the screen.

Zosia cleared her throat. “Everything alright?”

Dom clicked through to the text, from the same unsaved number as the previous two. _i’m in town this week, why don’t we meet for coffee and talk properly? u can’t ignore me forever. I x_

“Dom?”

“Uh, yeah, just – one of those marketing things,” he said, and dropped his phone back into his pocket. “I don’t know how they get my number.”

Zosia shook her head. “I donated five quid to a guy working for Oxfam in first year and they still send me emails to this day,” she said.

“That’s why I make a point of refusing to talk to any of those people,” said Dom, fingers tracing the edge of his phone cover through his pocket. “They don’t know when to let it go.”

*

A few days later, Jasmine and Morven ordered every medic they knew (and also liked) to attend an evening in Christ’s Buttery – also known in normal universities as ‘the college bar’. Dom had agreed to go when faced with the prospect of a staring contest against Jasmine’s wide, Labrador puppy eyes, though Zosia and Ollie had managed to cry off by claiming they had a pre-arranged restaurant date booked. Dom was privy to the knowledge that this was horseshit, but he decided to keep his silence.

When he got to the bar at ten to seven, he found Jasmine sitting with Jez and Damon from first year. Dom didn’t think he’d yet spotted the two freshers more than three feet apart from one another. He waved to them and went over to the bar to get himself a drink.

The guy at the bar was cute in a scruffy sort of way, with dirty blond curls and a beard. He looked to be around Dom’s age, and he was wearing a grey t-shirt that was at least two sizes too small, straining against his pecs. He nodded to Dom, but seemed to look straight past him.

“What can I get you?”

“Just a Bulmer’s, please,” said Dom, handing him his college card to scan. The guy didn’t move for a second, eyes still fixed on a point somewhere beyond Dom’s shoulder. Dom glanced behind himself and realised that the guy was looking at the table Jasmine had requisitioned.

“Word to the wise,” said Dom, “if you’re interested in that girl with the blonde hair, so’s three-quarters of the male population of this university. And a good percentage of the rest, too, to be honest.”

The bar guy – _Mickey_ , or so his name-badge said – jerked his head to one side. “Oh! No, I’m not, well, I wasn’t –”

Dom raised an eyebrow. “Well, someone’s clearly caught your interest. The bloke to her left, maybe? Jez? He’s quite a looker, too, I suppose.”

Mickey flushed and ducked behind the fridge door to grab the cider Dom had ordered. When he re-emerged, he didn’t meet Dom’s eyes as he passed Dom’s card back and pushed his bottle across the bar to him.

“Thanks,” said Dom, and added with a wink: “And don’t worry, I won’t tell.”

Mickey’s face was still scarlet as he turned away, and Dom spotted Jez glancing over at the bar and pursing his lips. Maybe the lust at first sight was mutual. As he slid into the seat one-over from Jasmine, Jez said: “What did you say to that bloke at the bar, mate? He looks like his head’s about to explode.”

Dom ignored Jasmine and Damon’s less-than-subtle attempts to crane their necks for a glimpse.

“Oh, just asked him what he was looking at,” said Dom. “Or rather, who.”

“And?” said Jez. Dom took a sip of his cider and smirked.

“If you really want to know, you could go ask him yourself,” he said. Jez pouted like a pre-teen emo taking a selfie for MySpace.

“He just spent ten minutes trying to chat him up by pretending he was interested in being recommended a beer,” said Damon, his grin refusing to fade even as Jez punched him in the shoulder.

“That’s a classic,” said Jasmine. “I pulled someone at Clare Cellars last year by asking how brandy was made. Couldn’t tell you a word they said now, but still.”

“There we go, there’s hope for you yet,” said Dom to Jez.

“What are we hoping for?” Morven asked, swooping in from the doorway to give Jasmine a kiss on the forehead.

“Jez has a thing for the bartender,” said Jasmine. Jez spluttered, and Morven glanced across to the bar, tilting her head thoughtfully.

“Hm, he is pretty cute, isn’t he?” she said. “I’m going to get a drink from him. Shall I put in a good word for you, Jez?”

“No!” Jez exclaimed. “Nope, no way, absolutely not.”

Morven gave him a look that could only be described as a leer as she moved away to the bar. Jez gave a chuckling Damon a light shove.

“Can _any_ of you lot mind your own beeswax, ever?”

“You’ll thank us when the wedding bells are ringing,” said Damon.

“Ooh, can I be bridesmaid?” said Jasmine.

“Nope,” said Jez. “You wouldn’t even make it on the guestlist!”

By the time Morven joined them again, slinging her arm across the back of the sofa beside Jasmine, a couple of others had also turned up: Cameron Dunn, a guy from Dom and Morven’s year, who was rumoured to be the son of the semi-mythical trauma surgeon Berenice Wolfe, and Lily Chao, a formidable genius from the year above who Dom knew consistently irritated Ollie by always doing better than him in their exams.

She seemed to have figured out that Damon was the only person in the group who was remotely keen to hear about the clinical practice she’d been doing at a hospital in King’s Lynn, and was therefore devoting her attention to him. Dom had long tuned out when the Buttery door opened again, blasting the room with the cold night air.

“Oh, Raf, you made it!” said Morven. Dom had no idea who Raf was, but he nodded a greeting at him and the guy he was with anyway.

“Yeah, got the night off for once,” said Raf. “And this is my housemate, Fletch.”

Fletch waved. “Hope I’m not imposing,” he said in a tone that said he really didn’t care either way. Dom felt his lips twitch.

“Of course not, sit down!” Morven pointed to the chairs opposite Dom, and Fletch took a seat, leaning forward to speak to Dom over the little table.

“Adrian Fletcher,” he said, offering Dom a hand to shake. “But everyone except me mum calls me Fletch.”

“Dominic Copeland,” said Dom. “Dom.” He didn’t disclose the fact that _his_ mother called him ‘Dazzle’.

“You a friend of Raf’s?”

“I’ve not met him before,” Dom admitted. “I’m friends with Morven and Jasmine, though. I’m in third year like them.” He pointed them out to Fletch, who nodded.

“I don’t know anyone here but Raf,” said Fletch. “I’m a nurse on the Major Trauma ward at Addenbrookes, so that’s how we became friends.”

“And now you live together?”

“Yeah, and my kids. We’re a proper happy family, us.”

Raf, who had just arrived back with two glasses of red wine, laughed. “All we need now is a dog, eh?”

“Mm, and who’s going to look after that, mate?” said Fletch. “As if four kids weren’t enough.”

Dom tried not to think about the logistics of holding down a nursing job at the same time as being responsible for several human lives that weren’t your own. “That must keep you busy,” he said faintly.

“You have no idea,” said Raf. Fletch elbowed him in the ribs.

“Don’t talk about our kids like that, you,” he teased.

“Oi, listen up everyone!” Jasmine’s voice rose above the hubbub. “Jez has finished his drink.”

Everyone who had been in the bar for Jez’s earlier embarrassment dropped their trains of thought and conversations to stare Jez and the dregs of his beer.

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” said Jez, getting up. “Point taken. You’d better not start making any bets behind my back.”

“What’s going on?” Fletch asked Dom in a stage whisper, as Jez turned back to the group halfway to the bar to make a cutthroat gesture at Damon, who was making kissy faces.

“Jez is trying to seduce the barman,” said Dom. Fletch looked over to the bar, and Dom watched his eyes narrow.

“That’s never –” he shook Raf’s shoulder, “– that’s not Mickey Ellisson, is it?”

Dom shifted in his seat. “His badge did say ‘Mickey’,” he said. Raf sucked in a sharp breath.

“If he knows what’s good for him, your friend’ll keep well away from the Ellissons,” he said.

“Why?” said Dom. Jez was leaning against the bar to speak to Mickey, who was laughing. Fletch sighed.

“They’re a bunch of neo-Nazi thugs, that’s why,” he said. “The dad has a full-on hate campaign going on up in Arbury; we had police crawling all over the hospital last time he and his scumbag son decided someone needed a beating ’cause of the colour of their skin.”

“His son? Not _him_?” Dom jerked his head in Mickey’s direction.

“No, his older brother,” said Raf.

“He’s a wrong ’un, takes after his dad,” Fletch added. “He’s only just finished a stretch for GBH.”

“Jesus,” said Dom. No one else had been listening in on their exchange, too wrapped up in trying to watch Jez flirt without him noticing them. They were all failing: Jez was holding up his middle finger to them all behind his back as he carried on chatting to Mickey. After a minute, he fished a pen out of his pocket and scribbled something on the back of a beer coaster, before returning with his pint and a strange, dizzy grin on his face.

“Went well, I take it?” said Jasmine, to gales of laughter from the group. Dom shot Fletch an uneasy look.

“Time will tell, my friend,” said Jez, sitting back down. “Time will tell.” Damon slapped him on the shoulder, hooting with delight, and the group began to splinter and talk amongst themselves again.

“You’d better tell him, mate,” said Fletch in a low voice. “He’s going to go down like a house on fire round at the Ellissons’, isn’t he?”

Dom ran a hand through his hair, forgetting that he’d gelled it before coming out; his hand came away tacky, and he was forced to wipe it on his jeans. “Yeah,” he said.

They sat in silence for a minute or two, until the tell-tale blast of air from the left signalled another person’s arrival. Dom twisted round to see Lofty, bundled up in a thick woollen scarf. His eyes darted around the room until they fell on Dom: then, he broke into a wide smile and held up a hand. Dom waved back.

“That your boyfriend?” asked Fletch. Dom’s head snapped back around.

“What? No, he’s – he’s not,” he said. “We don’t even know each other that well. What made you think that?”

“You both have those matching soppy grins on your faces, for one,” Raf said with a smirk. Dom screwed up his nose at them.

“I don’t grin soppily at _anyone_ ,” he said. Raf and Fletch gave each other a knowing look.

“Whatever you say, mate,” said Fletch.

Before Dom could fire off a reply, Lofty was at his shoulder, gesturing to the seat beside Dom. “Is this taken?”

“No,” he said, before Raf or Fletch could beat him to it. “You made it, then.”

“Yep, Sacha let me out of my supervision on time for once,” said Lofty. He unwound his scarf and draped it over the back of his chair. “I’m just going to get a drink. Can I get you anything?”

Dom shook his head and tried not to watch Lofty amble over to the bar. He wouldn’t let Fletch or Raf get any more bizarre ideas in their heads. When Lofty returned with a can of Fanta, Fletch leant forward and gave Dom a wink.

“Going to introduce us, then, mate?” he said. Dom pursed his lips.

“Of course. Fletch, Raf, this is Lofty Chiltern,” he said. “Lofty, meet Adrian Fletcher and Raf di Lucca.”

“So, uh, what’s the story behind that, if you don’t mind me asking?” asked Raf. “I mean, I assume your parents didn’t christen you Lofty, right?”

Lofty laughed. “No, they didn’t. My real name’s Ben, but there was an unfortunate incident involving an attic and my best friend’s auntie ending up in hospital. Everyone started calling me Lofty after that, and it just stuck.”

“You can’t leave us hanging like that!” Fletch exclaimed. “What happened?”

“It’s not that exciting, I’m afraid,” said Lofty, tracing patterns with his thumb in the condensation on top of his can. “I was staying at my friend’s house over the summer sleeping in their attic room. Her auntie came to visit one morning, and they forgot that they hadn’t told her I was staying in the house – she came upstairs to use the bathroom, just as I was coming down from the attic to go shower. Long story short, she saw me in standing there in nothing but my towel, screamed, and fell straight back down the stairs. She was okay, thank God, but yeah. That’s how I ended up being Lofty.”

“Wow,” said Raf. “That’s one way to earn yourself a nickname.”

Lofty shrugged. “I’m sure it’s not the worst people could have come up with for me,” he said.

“My mum still calls me ‘Dazzle’,” said Dom, wondering why he’d chosen to let that slip. Fletch and Raf snickered into their drinks, but Lofty gave him a smile.

“I think that’s pretty sweet,” he said. “How did that come about?”

Dom looked away. “My real name’s Darren,” he said. “I go by my middle name now, but I don’t think Mum got the message.”

Raf laughed. “Mothers rarely do, in my experience.”

“No, they get the message alright,” said Fletch. “They just choose to ignore all the bits they don’t like.” Suddenly, he straightened up, his attention caught by something behind Dom and Lofty. “’Ay up!” he said, nodding at Dom. “Your mate’s off. Maybe you should go have a chat, eh?”

Dom turned to see Jez heading left out of the Buttery, and swore under his breath. Jez wasn’t even his mate, really, was he? But then again, he supposed _he’d_ want to know if he was about to start sleeping with a guy whose entire family was apparently composed of violent racists. He stood up.

“Won’t be a minute,” he said to Lofty, and went off in search of Jez. Going left out of the Buttery led to the Library, and that was where the nearest toilets were located; Dom thought it was a fair bet that he’d find Jez there. Sure enough, when he pushed the door to the men’s open, Jez was washing his hands at one of the sinks. He glanced up as Dom entered.

“Alright, mate?”

“Uh, well. You know that guy you were talking to at the bar, Mickey?”

“Y-es,” said Jez slowly. “I was getting his number about five minutes ago, not even my memory’s that bad.”

“His family – well, they’re Neo-Nazis. The Ellissons. They’ve put people in hospital.” The direct route it was, then. Jez’s jaw clenched. Dom winced as the other man’s expression cycled through several phases: confused, scared, hurt. Then, his brows drew together, lips tightening, eyes darkening.

It was with a shaking voice that Jez snapped back at him: “From what I hear about what your last bloke did to you, you’re not someone I should be taking advice from when it comes to men.”

It was as if Jez had reached out and slapped him. Dom jerked back in shock, and Jez stalked past him. The door slammed behind him, leaving Dom locked in place, staring at his own blurring reflection in the full-length mirror on the wall in front of him.

After a few seconds, he scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand and hurried back to the bar, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair and retrieving his bag from underneath it. “I’m off now,” he said in Raf and Fletch’s direction, and ignored Lofty’s upturned face, crinkled in surprise. “Pleasure meeting you.”

Dom rushed out, hearing the loud sound of Jez’s laughter ringing out as he joked with Jasmine and Morven like nothing had happened. Dom felt his stomach twist, and walked faster. He could hear footsteps behind him, and then a voice calling out to him:

“Dom, hey! Are you okay?”

Dom gritted his teeth. “I’m fine,” he said. Lofty was alongside him now, slightly out of breath.

“You don’t seem fine,” he said. “Was it something between you and Jez? Did you argue?”

Dom sniffed. “I barely know him, why should I care?”

“Well, something’s made you upset,” said Lofty, slightly out-of-breath from keeping pace with Dom.

“I’m not upset,” Dom said, in what even he could admit was possibly his most audacious lie to date.

“Raf said something about you needing to talk to Jez about something important,” said Lofty. “Are you two…”

“God, no!” said Dom. “It’s none of your business.”

Lofty stilled, and Dom came to a halt beside him, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the concrete.

“You’re right,” said Lofty, “it’s not. Sorry.”

“No, it’s – well, obviously it’s not fine, but. I’m overreacting, I know that, right? I don’t want you to think I don’t know that. I’m being dramatic. I just – shit.” Dom sank down onto the low wall enclosing the Third Court garden. After a second’s hesitation, Lofty joined him.

“I’m sick of feeling so fucking terrible,” said Dom. “All the fucking time.”

He expected Lofty to jump in and say something – maybe even tell him to mind his language – but he stayed quiet, his breathing slow and steady beside him. Dom forced himself to take a few gulps of cold air, but it just made his chest ache.

“Jez said something about a relationship I used to be in,” he said. “I didn’t think he knew.” As the words left his mouth, he was suddenly seized by the strangling fear that _everyone_ knew, that everyone was judging him, laughing and pointing and whispering behind his back. He gasped, and Lofty started beside him.

“Knew what?” he asked.

“I – well, about the whole thing. I didn’t tell him. It was stupid to think I could stop people finding out. Hell, you probably know, too, you’re just too polite to say so.”

“Know _what_ , Dom?” Lofty touched his arm, waiting until Dom looked him in the eye. “I promise you, I don’t know, whatever it is.”

Dom closed his eyes. “Sorry. Like I said, I’m overreacting.” He let himself wonder who’d told Jez. Damon wouldn’t have a clue, and Zosia didn’t really know Jez. So that meant it was probably Jasmine or Morven. The thought left him with a stinging pain in the back of his throat.

He’d thought it was his secret, yet another part of his life he could keep hidden from the view of others. Sure, a few of his closest friends and various authority figures had found out, but they already knew him. They _had_ to be patient and understanding, and deal with the fallout. No one else would, not when the whole damn mess had been entirely his own fault.

He opened his mouth, about to say – something – but at that moment, he heard familiar peals of laughter, and raised his head to see Jasmine and Morven arm in arm as they walked into the courtyard. Watching them laugh about something together, their foreheads almost touching, made something in him crack open.

“Did one of you tell Jez about Isaac?” He was on his feet before he knew it, storming up to them.

“What?” said Morven, drawing back with a frown. “Dom, what’s happened?”

“Jez _knew_. No one else could have told him.”

Jasmine had gone very pale, lip trembling. Dom turned on her.

“Was it you? Did you tell him?”

“No, Dom, I swear I didn’t say anything – I just said you’d – had a hard time of it, I didn’t mean for –”

“It wasn’t yours to tell!” Dom yelled. Lofty’s hand was on his shoulder, trying to make him think twice; he shook it off with another step forward. Jasmine’s eyes were shining with tears, and Morven pushed in front of her, getting between them.

“You need to back off, Dom,” she said. “Whatever Jez said to you, that’s on him, not Jasmine.”

Dom could hardly see through the haze of rage and tears. “What, so it’s okay for her to go around telling people my ex used to beat the shit out of me, if they so kindly decide not to use it against me later, is that it?”

He stopped, realising what he’d just said – what he’d just admitted to – in front of Lofty. Jasmine let out a hiccupping sob, and Morven shook her head.

“I’m sorry. We’ll talk later,” she said. She took Jasmine’s hand in hers and dragged her off across the courtyard to their building. Dom stared at the pavement, shoulders shaking in his effort to keep it together. It was as if the entire university was watching him, judging every mistake he’d ever made.

“Dom,” said Lofty from behind him, his voice wavering.

“Leave it, I’m _fine_ ,” Dom snapped, stalking off towards his room. He didn’t look back to find out whether Lofty was following him.

*

The next day, he had an email sitting at the top of his inbox, highlighted with an ‘urgent’ red exclamation mark, from Sacha Levy. It asked him to come to his office after classes and lectures.

He made his way to his Director of Studies’ office after a day of trying to keep up a normal, collected front for Zosia, and desperately trying to avoid any contact with the people he’d clashed with the previous night. It left him feeling jittery and hyperaware of his every movement, as if he’d been mixing energy drinks with adrenaline and caffeine pills all day.

Sacha answered his door on the first knock, leaving Dom wondering if he had been standing directly behind it in anticipation. He invited Dom to sit down, offering tea which Dom refused.

“So,” said Sacha, making a steeple with his fingers. “The Senior Tutor overheard a loud argument between you and some girls last night. He was quite concerned by what he heard, and he insisted I talk with you about it.”

Dom swallowed around the lump already rising in his windpipe. “Oh.”

“So, what went on, Dom? What was it all about?”

“You already know,” he said, scratching absently at the fabric on the arm of his chair. Sacha heaved a sigh.

“I got the gist of it from Mr Hanssen, yes,” he said. “But I’d quite like to hear your side of things, too.”

“I was being stupid,” said Dom. He’d had an entire sleepless night to think and rethink and overthink what he’d done. “I was just – I just – I lost it a bit.”

“Why?”

Dom didn’t answer.

“Look, I really want to help you here, Dom,” said Sacha, leaning forward in his chair and clasping his hands together.

“You _have_ to try and help me, you mean. It’s your job.”

“Yes, but I also care,” said Sacha. “I genuinely do.”

Dom looked up: Sacha’s eyes were hopeful, desperate for him to confide. He wanted to push back, to see how long it would take for Sacha to decide he’d had enough and wash his hands of him, but he was too tired. He let his head tip upwards against the back of the chair so he didn’t have to keep looking at Sacha’s face.

“A guy told me he’d heard about what happened with Isaac. He said it because I told him something he didn’t want to hear. I thought – well, it was Jasmine who told him. I got angry at her when I saw her, and Morven tried to step in, but I was – I wasn’t thinking straight, I know, but Isaac was _my_ fuck-up,” he winced as he said it, but Sacha didn’t say a word, so he carried on. “What happened – it was mine to hide. I didn’t want anyone else to know if they didn’t have to, and now _Lofty_ does, too, because I went and blurted it out in front of him. I’m so stupid.”

“Hey,” said Sacha after a moment. “Dom, I want you to remember that what Isaac put you through was not your fault.”

“It doesn’t feel that way,” Dom muttered. He had allowed it to happen, hadn’t he? He’d defended Isaac to anyone who’d dared to question their relationship, had allowed him to continue without censure. And then, when it had all come to an end, he had let him get away with it. Let him carry on living his life with no real consequences. Because, at the heart of it, it was Dom’s fault that any of it had happened in the first place, wasn’t it?

“It might feel like it was,” said Sacha. “But it isn’t. He wanted you to believe it was because of you, because of something you did, but it was all him. He chose to abuse the trust you put in him.”

“Where do you _get_ all this stuff?” said Dom, trying to laugh. It came out somewhat strangled, but Sacha gave him a sad smile in return.

“It’s true,” he said. “You might want to keep blaming yourself, but you don’t have to. Everyone who cares about you knows that Isaac was the one in the wrong, not you.” He paused, then said in an even gentler tone: “And I’m sure Lofty understands that, too.”

Dom blinked away the onset of yet more tears, feeling unbearably weak, and hating it. “Maybe,” he said, though it seemed almost impossible: the faintest, wispy cloud of a dream hidden by the hugest mountain in the range of shit things that had happened in his life. Why would Lofty even want to bother sorting through that mess?

“I wish he didn’t know,” he said. “I just wanted to put it all in the past, move on without every single new person I met finding out and pitying me, and walking on eggshells around me all the time because they’re scared I’ll flip out. And then I flipped out anyway, because I can’t even act like everything’s fine even now my life’s back to normal.”

“You don’t have to act like everything’s fine,” said Sacha.

“I _want_ it to be, though,” said Dom. “I want to move on, but I also want everything to go back to how it was. Before – before –” He felt his voice crack, but he knew Sacha understood what he meant; he’d supervised Arthur and Dom in pairs, sometimes, in their first and second year. He had lost Arthur too.

Sacha nodded. “Nothing is normal after a friend dies. Nothing feels right, I know that. And it’ll never be the same, but you don’t have to choose between your old life and your new one. You’re allowed to honour Arthur’s memory, you know. You don’t have to live solely in the past, _or_ forget him entirely.”

Dom tried and failed to smother a raw sob. Sacha pushed a box of tissues on the table towards him.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said. “You’ve got so many people who care about you, Dom. You’re going to be okay.”

Dom ripped a wad of tissues from the box, buried his face in them, and cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your support! Obviously this chapter begins to bring in an adapted version of the Mickey/Jez storyline from Casualty; I wanted to work through a moment with Jez and Dom that corresponded with Jez's unusually cruel response when Dom came on to him to try and get back at Isaac (in his Holby crossover ep way back when). I love Jez, though, so please don't say anything unwarranted in the comments unless you want me to disagree!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dom relives some of his worst memories, gets drunk, and makes what is probably a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in this chapter: there is an extended discussion of the emotional abuse Isaac put Dom through, drawing on canon. There's also talk of abortion, cancer, death, and grief.

There was a box Dom kept at the back of his wardrobe, whether at his parent’s house or at university. It was about the size of a shoebox, and about as unassuming – a plain brown cardboard colour, with a single name printed on the top in the neatest version of Dom’s sprawling handwriting.

That evening, when he got back to his room, he went straight to his wardrobe, pushing aside his shirts and lifting the Primark parka draped over the box. He brought it out and lay it on the coffee table, dropping to his knees at the side.

The first item in the box was a photograph in a pink ‘best friends forever’ frame. Zosia and Arthur had given it to him as a joke on his eighteenth birthday: it was all three of them, arms around each other, squinting and grinning at the camera. It had been taken by a stranger the summer before sixth-form, during a trip to London; they were standing in front of the Houses of Parliament, boats drifting by on the river behind them. Dom was wearing one of Arthur’s t-shirts, a ratty old thing with the periodic table printed on it, and Zosia was making bunny ears behind Arthur’s head.

He drew the photo out of the box and stood it on the table. They’d all been so impossibly _happy_ that day, even though Zosia had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder a month earlier, Dom was about to lose his first real boyfriend because he couldn’t stop lying to him, and Arthur had no idea of the future awaiting him just around the corner.

There was a sudden knock at the door. Dom paused with his hand halfway back into the box, tempted to pretend he wasn’t in and hope whoever it was would leave him in peace. After another knock, more insistent this time, he heaved himself to his feet and went to open the door.

Lofty stood in the doorway, his curls falling into his eyes. He ran a hand through his hair and tried to tuck it behind his ears, to no avail.

“Hey,” he said, when Dom didn’t say anything. “I thought maybe we – I – well, could I come in?”

“Be my guest,” said Dom, stepping aside. He pulled up a chair and perched on it, and Lofty took another just opposite, his eyes darting around the room before coming to rest on the picture Dom had left out on the table.

“That’s a sweet photo,” he said. “Are you still friends with them?”

Dom pressed his fingers into his temple. “Sort of. Zosia’s my best friend, and Arthur – he died last year.”

“Oh,” said Lofty, more an exhalation of sound than a word. Dom waited for him to tell him how very sorry he was for his loss, but instead, he said: “You were at school together?”

Dom nodded. “We met in Year Nine. I got moved from one form class to another because I annoyed one of my teachers too much. We hated each other at first – he was such a goody-two-shoes. I lived to wind him up.”

Lofty smiled. “But you became friends anyway?”

“Yeah,” said Dom. “God knows how, since I was the absolute worst when I was a kid. But we ended up doing everything together. And then Zosia joined our school for sixth-form, and she was just – we just _worked_ as a group. We all got in to Cambridge to study Medicine together. Me and Arthur were at Downing, Zosia’s at Jesus.”

“That’s amazing,” said Lofty.

“I guess,” said Dom. “We were doing alright. And Arthur started dating Morven, you know her, in our first term. They were so ridiculously sappy and adorable. We were good.” Dom’s throat clenched. “Then, the summer before our second year, Arthur got diagnosed with cancer. It was aggressive, and it was – it was too far along. It was too late. He stayed and worked in college for as long as he could, though. He wouldn’t intermit and leave us to go home. He loved being here, way more than I ever did. He died near the start of our exam term in second year. I had to get special consideration to scrape through to this year. I wasn’t even sure I would, but –”

Dom stopped short, aware of Lofty watching him. He looked back, defying the urge to hide his face.

“I don’t want to get into it,” he said, with as much dignity as he could muster. “I shouldn’t be telling you all this.”

“It’s okay,” said Lofty. “I’m the one who asked.”

“I was – I had to go talk to Sacha after what happened last night,” said Dom.

“What? How did he find out?”

“Apparently the Senior Tutor heard it all,” said Dom.

Lofty made a face. “God. Was Sacha okay about it?”

“Yeah,” said Dom. “He’s, well, he was the first person I told about Isaac, so he cuts me a lot of slack. More than I deserve, probably.”

“Have you spoken to Jasmine since?” Lofty asked, mercifully side-stepping the opening Dom had given him to press for more about Isaac.

Dom’s shoulders sank. “No. I know I have to, though. I think I owe you an apology, too.”

“Me?” Lofty blinked at him. “You don’t need to say sorry to me.”

“Well, I am,” said Dom. “I was rude, and you were only trying to help.”

“I get it,” said Lofty, shrugging. “Like I say, you don’t have to apologize. I’d have felt the same.”

Dom snorted. “You? I’ve never once seen you be anything other than – well –” He flailed his arms in Lofty’s general direction. “Look at you, you’re the nicest person in the entire universe. Do you even feel anger?”

Lofty let out a nervous laugh, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I’m not a saint,” he said. Then, his face grew more serious. “I did – feel angry – last night,” he said. Dom’s stomach flipped.

“Oh?”

“When you said what he did to you,” said Lofty. “I was so angry at him, Dom.”

“You don’t even know him,” said Dom, heart thudding against his ribs.

“No, I don’t,” said Lofty. “But I wish you didn’t, either.”

“You and me both.” Dom huffed a humourless laugh. “But when I met him I thought he’d saved my life. I got with him after one of my exams early that term – he was an invigilator at one of them, he was in his fifth year. I couldn’t even wait a solid three weeks after Arthur died. And we both stayed in Cambridge over the summer, so we spent almost every day together. He made me forget, at first. I was a mess, but with him I could pretend for a bit that I had it together, that I’d finally found someone who loved me, that I hadn’t just lost Arthur.”

“You were grieving,” said Lofty. “It’s only natural you’d want to not feel that pain.”

Dom drew his knees up towards his chest. “Maybe,” he said. “But I let him try to push Arthur out of my mind. Out of my life.”

“He didn’t,” said Lofty, fingers tapping the table beside the box. “You didn’t let him.”

Dom shook his head so hard that his ears rang. Lofty didn’t – he couldn’t – understand. If he did, he wouldn’t even be sitting there listening to Dom feeling sorry for himself. He’d be disgusted that Dom had been so weak, so love-struck, so caught up in Isaac’s web that he’d excused what Isaac had done to Arthur’s memory. He drew in a deep breath, feeling his lungs contract and expand. He held the breath until it burned, then let it out, and pulled the box into his lap.

He sifted gently through the strata of his and Arthur’s lives together: more photos, taken by cheap disposable cameras, of them as fourteen-year-olds, scruffy-haired and chubby in their red school jumpers. Arthur’s Cambridge acceptance letter, with Dom’s folded around it. A CD he, Arthur and Zosia had burnt for the marathon revision sessions they’d convened for their A-levels. More photos, this time at their sixth-form leavers’ ceremony, wearing their smartest clothes and beaming. A newspaper article in a small plastic folder with a picture of the three of them holding their A-level results, accompanied by the headline: ‘Local Teens Make School Proud with Nine A*s’.

At the bottom, hidden beneath the eighteenth birthday card Arthur had given him with a Napoleon quote written inside, was the one memory of Arthur that would always be tainted. Dom saw Lofty watching with confusion as he scooped the broken remains of the medal into the palm of his hand. There was still dirt lodged in the ridges. It lay there on his palm, the broken and stained metal cold against his skin.

“Dom?” said Lofty. Dom let his lip curl into a self-deprecating sneer.

“This is what I let Isaac do to Arthur’s memory,” he said. “It was Arthur’s granddad’s medal. Arthur left it to me, in his will. I was meant to take care of it.” The words felt too huge for his mouth, fighting to be let out now he’d started talking. “I let Isaac take it from me and stamp on it. He tried to destroy it, and I forgave him for it. I kept seeing him, even after he did that. I chose him over Arthur.”

Lofty was covering his mouth with his hand. “No,” he said, his voice the sharpest that Dom had ever heard it. He flinched, and Lofty instantly softened, dropping his hands to his sides and lowering his voice. “You can’t think that any of that was down to you, Dom. He was abusing you.”

“He didn’t like me talking about Arthur,” Dom said, almost whispering. “So I didn’t. He didn’t like me talking to Zosia or Morven, so I didn’t. He didn’t want me to ring my mum, so I didn’t. He didn’t want me to complain about him sleeping with other people, so I didn’t. I gave in to him on every single fucking thing, and even that didn’t make him happy. I did it until I couldn’t do it anymore, but sometimes I still feel like I was the one being unreasonable. That I was just making a fuss out of nothing.”

“That isn’t nothing, Dom,” said Lofty. His fingers reached out towards the medal, a silent question. Dom offered it to him, and Lofty traced his fingers over the dirty, battered metal like it was the most precious thing he had ever seen. “What he did wasn’t nothing, but you didn’t give him a reason to do it. Not one.”

“I still put up with it,” said Dom. Why was Lofty being so stupidly, doggedly _kind_ to him, after everything he now knew?

Lofty put the medal back into his hands, his fingers brushing lightly against Dom’s wrist as he drew back. “You were trying to survive,” he said. “And you did.”

*

Dom finished the next morning’s lectures with bloodshot eyes and a Venti Americano with an extra shot. Zosia gave him sly looks out of the corner of her eye all through their immunology lecture together and collared him as they were packing their notes up.

“What’s up with you? You’re in Morven’s bad books, by the way.”

“I’m aware,” said Dom, shoving the Moleskine notepad she’d bought him for Christmas into his bag.

“She wants to talk to you,” said Zosia, pushing her phone under his nose. “Look!”

The text from Morven said: _I’ll be at addenbrookes caf in 20 w/ Jas, bring him. Love Morv x_

“Not exactly bursting with the spirit of forgiveness,” said Dom, raising an eyebrow at her. She gave him a stern look, and he wilted. “Yeah, yeah, I know I have some grovelling to do.”

They set themselves up in a secluded corner of the café and Dom ordered a latte. Zosia stuck to mineral water.

“Still getting bouts of morning sickness,” she told him. “I’ll be glad when my appointment comes around.”

“Oh, have you got it sorted?” he asked, feeling shamefully out of the loop.

“Yeah, this Friday at two. Right in the middle of town, actually.”

“What, in the market square?” Dom deadpanned, unable to help himself. She pretended to punch him in the shoulder.

“No, you idiot. In the clinic on Bridge Street. I don’t really know how it’s going to happen. I might get to choose. I should probably look that up before I go.”

“Given that we’re going to be bona fide doctors one day, you think we’d know more about this crap,” said Dom. Zosia hummed in absent agreement; then, her eyes widened, and she pointed over Dom’s shoulder.

“Look out, they’re here,” she said.

Dom spun around in his chair, and spotted Morven and Jasmine deep in conversation. They didn’t seem to have seen Zosia or Dom.

“Oh, God, I haven’t actually thought this through at all,” Dom moaned. “Morv’s going to kill me. She’s going to _disembowel_ me.”

“Shut up, you big baby,” said Zosia, rising out of her chair a bit to catch the pair’s attention with a wave. Dom flinched the moment Morven’s eyes locked on his – and then Jasmine was running, hospital regulations be damned. Dom barely had time to stand up before she was barrelling into him, throwing her arms around his neck and squeezing him tight.

“I’m so, so sorry,” she whispered in his ear. Dom wrapped his arms around her.

“It’s me who’s sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have shouted at you. It wasn’t your fault.”

“It was. I didn’t think Jez would ever say anything to you,” said Jasmine. “I should never have said a word.”

“It’s okay,” said Dom. She pulled back and frowned up at him. “Well, okay, it’s not okay,” he amended, “but it’s something I should have had out with Jez, not you.”

“I get it,” she said. “I’d have been angry at me, too.”

“Friends?” Dom stuck out his hand. She shook it with fervour.

“Friends!”

Morven arrived and gave Dom a piercing once-over. “Jeez, you look terrible!”

“Thanks,” said Dom. “I was up most of the night.”

“Ooh,” said Jasmine. Dom rolled his eyes.

“Not like that,” he said. He turned back to Morven. “I was a mess. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” she said, and opened her arms to him. He stepped into the hug, breathing in the soft, rosy scent of her perfume.

“Love you,” he said.

“You know I love you too,” she said, kissing him on the cheek as they released each other. “Right.” She put her hands on her hips like a 1950s iteration of Wonder Woman. “I need caffeine. Who’s with me?”

Jasmine and Zosia wrinkled their noses in unison.

“Green tea for me, please!” said Jasmine, throwing herself into the rickety metal chair beside Dom. Zosia and Dom already had drinks, so Morven ambled off to the counter to order for her and Jasmine.

“So,” said Zosia, after a short stretch of silence, eyes narrowing in pursuit of her prey. “What _was_ keeping you up last night, Dom, if not the obvious?”

Dom groaned. “I was talking to Lofty, okay?”

“Lofty? So, you _were_ with a guy!” Jasmine crowed.

“Not like that,” Dom said. “Really, we were just – I don’t know, we talked about a lot of things.” Mostly about things related to him and his shitty life, it had to be said. He wasn’t sure Lofty had done much of the talking at all, other than to intersperse Dom’s rambling with the odd reassurance and affirmation. Because he was just _that_ sweet a person. While it made him feel an awful lot like he’d been a weird, impossible emotional burden, he thought Lofty would have a lot to say about that, so he decided it was best not to overthink it.

“Mm, okay,” said Zosia, shooting Jasmine a knowing smile. “If you say so.”

“I’m choosing to ignore you both,” Dom informed them, taking a pointed sip of his coffee. “Besides, he’s got a girlfriend, so you can stop all the nudging and winking now.”

*

The next week passed in relative peace, now that Dom had made up with Jasmine and Morven. Zosia had the abortion that Friday, and the relief was written on every line of her body in the days afterwards. “It’s been a bit of a pain, though,” she told him in an undertone at lectures on Monday. “My boobs don’t know what to do now. But Ollie’s been fussing over me – I think he’s fed me my entire body weight in chocolate and ice-cream these past few days.”

Dom saw Jez around college a couple of times, too; once, he was sitting with Mickey, smoking in the yard outside the library. On these occasions, they both avoided exchanging any words, and tried not to meet each other’s eyes.

It was Wednesday, when he was heading to the Buttery for coffee on his way back from a session at the hospital, that he spotted Jez walking in his direction through Second Court, accompanied by Damon. Dom ducked his head and veered right into the Buttery, hoping they weren’t planning a trip there themselves.

He realised that he hadn’t made the smartest move when he saw Mickey standing behind the bar, drying glasses. The ground swallowing him whole wasn’t about to happen, though, so Dom marched over, steeling himself for the worst. Mickey didn’t _look_ like he was about to shank him but, then, he did have a job to keep hold of.

“Hi,” said Mickey, after a minute of watching Dom stare at the fridge of beers behind him like it contained the answers to all the exams he had left to sit before becoming a doctor. “Can I get you anything?”

“Uh, yeah, just – just a regular latte, please.”

“Sure.” Mickey took his college card to scan and turned to the coffee machine. Dom glanced behind him, checking for any sign of Jez. It had been a while – perhaps he and Damon really had just passed on by. Before he could even finish thinking it, the door swung open, and Damon dragged Jez in.

“Just do it!” he said, giving Jez a shove in the direction of Dom and Mickey. Jez stumbled, off-balance, and managed to collect himself before sidling up to the bar. Mickey looked up, his face breaking into a wide, sunny smile when he saw Jez. Then, he seemed to remember Dom was right beside them, and the smile quickly dimmed.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” said Jez. “Can I get a flat white?”

“I’ll just finish up here,” said Mickey, the dots of pink high on his cheeks now the only indication that Jez was anything but a regular customer.

“Cool,” said Jez. Then, with what seemed like a great physical effort, he turned to face Dom. “Can I have a word?”

“If you must,” said Dom. “What do you want?”

Something a bit like shame flared up on Jez’s face for a second before he forced it away. “Can we go sit down?”

Mickey shot Jez a questioning look as he handed him and Dom their coffees, and Jez quirked his head: a silent ‘tell you later’.

They took their coffees to a table by the far window. Damon had disappeared, Dom noticed. He hoped that wasn’t a bad sign.

“So,” he said, after his first sip of scorching coffee. “What is it? Come to make more comments about my ex beating me up?”

“I’m sorry.” Jez drew in a deep breath. “I was a dickhead.”

“Yes, you were,” said Dom, drinking more of his boiling latte despite every taste bud on his tongue screaming in protest. “Care to explain why?”

“I was angry at myself,” said Jez. “At my luck.” He shot a worried look towards the bar and lowered his voice. “Scott Ellisson kicked my mate’s head in last year, just because he looked at him the wrong way. Left him bleeding in the gutter. He could have died, if that street had been any quieter than it was.”

“And you’re still willing to sleep with his brother, knowing all that?”

“Mickey’s not like the rest of them!” Jez hissed. “He doesn’t want anything to do with all that. I like _him_ , not his scumbag fucking brother.”

“You’ll go down well at the family barbecue, won’t you?”

“You think I don’t know I’m taking a risk? A mixed-race bisexual bloke going out with the son of a guy who thinks _my kind_ should be exterminated twice over.” He shook his head at himself. “What does it matter to you, anyway?”

Dom pressed his lips together. “The reason I told you in the first place was because I was worried about you getting yourself into something you had no idea about. We’re not friends, I know that, I just didn’t think you deserved to – well, get hurt. I don’t give a damn if you take what I said and carry on regardless. But I figured I’d like to be told, if I was in your shoes.”

“Well, you’re not,” said Jez. “You don’t know anything about him.”

Dom raised what he hoped was a withering eyebrow. It took Jez all of three seconds to quail under it. “I am sorry about what I said to you,” he said. “Not that that makes it alright. I know you went out of your way to tell me. You didn’t have to.” He scrubbed a rough hand across his forehead. “I should never have brought that bastard you went out with into it; I made it sound like it was your fault.”

Dom’s breath caught, and he hid his mouth behind his plastic coffee cup to clear his throat.

“You’re forgiven,” he said. “I suppose. As long as you do one thing for me.”

“What?”

“Try not to get yourself killed in pursuit of Mr Manbun over there,” said Dom. He met Jez’s eyes squarely, lips twitching in the barest hint of an upward curve. Jez gave him a rueful smile.

“I’ll do my best,” he said.

*

That Saturday dawned far too early, in Dom’s opinion, with a text from Jasmine. _LGBT THINGIE TONIGHT @ 8 IN THE TV ROOM, BYOB!!!!! AND U BETTER BE THERE, MORV’S AT BME POETRY NIGHT SO I’LL BE ON MY OWN IF U AREN’T XOXO_

He fumbled with his predictive text for a good five minutes before managing to type a coherent response. _Why do you have to text in all caps? I feel like you’re outside my window with a megaphone. I’ll be there xxx_

A few seconds later, she replied: _IT’S MY STYLE, DON’T CRAMP IT. GOOD, SEE U THERE (AT LEAST 10MINS EARLY PLS) XOXO_

Dom huffed and rolled over, determined to get the most of his chance to lie in. He had drifted halfway back to sleep when his phone vibrated again. Groaning at the genetic twist of fate that had made Jasmine such an enthusiastic morning person, he twisted round to check it.

_it’s been over 2mths since we last spoke. u can’t give me the cold shoulder forever. I x_

There was a second when his brain could have panicked: another text from Isaac wasn’t on the ingredient list for the most auspicious day of his life. But drowsy recklessness won out, and he had typed and sent a message back before he even really registered that he’d done it.

_Pls fuck off. desperation’s boring, Isaac._

He turned his phone on its front and burrowed back into his sheets. He would get that fucking lie-in, no matter what it took.

His phone didn’t buzz again until his alarm went off at ten. In Dom’s opinion, that was a much more reasonable hour to be awake at a weekend. He spent the morning at the gym, and the afternoon procrastinating on his essays for Jac Naylor and Ric Griffin, and making notes for his next lab session with Mo Effanga.

At half-five, Morven messaged him on Facebook. _Which outfit for BME Poetry Night???!!! Store closes in half an hour!!!!! I need help!!!!!!!!!!!_

Dom considered the two grainy photos she’d attached of herself in a badly-lit changing room. One of the pictures showed her in a pretty, light blue sundress with white flowers embroidered around the neckline and the hem. The other was a two-piece outfit – a tight-fitting patterned pencil skirt and a matching off-the-shoulder crop top, showing off a small strip of her midriff.

 _The second, definitely_ , he wrote back. _Though ofc you look incredible in both. Have fun! xxx_

 _You too_ , she replied.

By quarter to eight, Dom had eaten a quick dinner, showered, and made his way down to the TV room in the building behind Third Court fondly known as the Typewriter, due to its ugly, Brutalist stack design. He was equipped with a Diet Pepsi bottle that was filled with what was probably one-part vodka to each part coke; Bring Your Own Booze didn’t mean he had to provide for all and sundry while getting well and truly pissed.

He scanned his college card to get into the TV room and found Jasmine stringing up rainbow bunting over the TV on the wall. She’d already pushed the scratchy blue sofas into the corners and set up a few tables with a bag of snacks and some lemonade and paper cups in the centre of the room.

“Taking your job as LGBT rep seriously, I see,” said Dom. She gave him a smirk over her shoulder.

“I managed to get a budget of twenty-five quid for this lot,” she said. “Thought I might as well blow it before college changes their mind.”

“Need any help?” he asked, and she pointed him to the Sainsbury’s bag.

“Would you unpack that lot and make it look pretty-ish?”

Dom set to work laying out the packets of cookies, muffins, grapes, and even vegan sweets. Ever the thoughtful one, Jasmine. “So, what’s the plan for tonight, exactly?” he asked.

“I was thinking things could be pretty chilled-out,” said Jasmine, her tongue sticking out a little as she Blu-tacked more bunting string to the wall. “A pre-drinks type vibe, you know? Not a full-on party, but not a discussion group sitting in a circle sharing stories.”

“Ugh,” Dom shuddered at the idea. “Thank God for that.”

Just before eight, Jasmine laid out some name-badge stickers and a Sharpie she’d bought from Staples. “Name and pronouns,” she said. Dom wrote his on the first sticker and pressed it down above the chest pocket of his shirt.

It was only a few minutes later that people started to trickle in: a few nervous first years, greeted by a bouncy Jasmine with her most enthusiastic grin. One of the girls was wearing a bobby pin with a little rainbow stuck to it in her afro, and when Dom complimented it, she gave him a shy smile. They were starting to relax and chat with each other and Jasmine when a couple of people who had the look of the History student about them arrived, closely followed by Jez.

Dom gave him a nod by way of a greeting. “No Mickey?” he asked.

Jez shrugged, tacking his badge to his t-shirt. “He’s not exactly out and proud.” He took a swig from the water bottle he’d filled with what smelled like Amaretto.

“Understandable, given the circumstances,” said Dom, trying not to wince at the overpowering scent of almonds. “But no one here would shop him to his family, would they? They probably don’t even know who he is.”

“Not really his thing, anyway,” said Jez, shifting from foot to foot. “Not mine, either, to be honest.”

“But when Jasmine asks you to do something, you don’t say no,” said Dom. Jez flashed him a smirk.

“Exactly, mate. Exactly.”

They both turned as the door beeped to announce another person’s entry. Dom blinked, his mouth suddenly going very dry.

“Lofty!” said Jasmine, bustling past Dom and Jez to give Lofty a one-armed hug. “Haven’t seen you in a while. How’s it going?”

Lofty said something Dom couldn’t make out, and Jez elbowed him in the ribs.

“Isn’t that the bloke that lives on your corridor?”

Dom nodded.

“Didn’t know he was one of us lot,” said Jez.

“Neither did I,” said Dom, biting at the lid of his bottle as he lapsed into thought. Lofty wasn’t straight? Why did that feel like a revelation? What difference did it make to Dom either way?

“Maybe he’s just one of those, what are they called? Straight allies,” said Jez. “Though I don’t know why he’d bother if he was.”

“Mm,” said Dom, not really paying attention. Jez gave him a sideways glance.

“You listening?”

“What? Oh, yeah. Yeah, I am,” said Dom, dragging his eyes away from Lofty and Jasmine’s conversation. “What were you saying?”

Jez laughed. “You’ve got it bad, mate,” he said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Dom, lifting his chin with some defiance. Jez snorted.

“Go on,” he said. “You’re clearly dying to go talk to him.”

Dom rolled his eyes. “It’s not like that. He’s a mate, that’s all.”

Jasmine went over to hook her phone up to the speakers, and Lofty turned and caught sight of Dom. He waved, and then tripped backwards over his own feet, only just managing to steady himself on a nearby table. Dom’s lips twitched, and he waved back. Jez shook his head.

“Lost cause,” he said, and wandered off in the direction of some first years with undercuts and pierced eyebrows.

Dom walked over to where Lofty stood, just as Jasmine’s Spotify ‘Party’ playlist started with a Kesha number.

“Hey,” he said. “Didn’t know you were…” he gestured around at the rainbow bunting.

“Oh,” said Lofty, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Yeah.”

Dom nodded, feeling uneasy. Why had he even said that? “Sorry,” he said. “It’s none of my business.”

“Oh, no, I mean, I just don’t really – I kind of only recently started to figure things out, so. It’s not a secret or anything. It just never came up.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Dom. They both fell into silence; Dom took a swig from his bottle just for something to do, and winced at the sharp, overwhelming tang of cheap vodka.

“You made up with Jasmine, then?” said Lofty, eventually.

“Yeah,” said Dom. “It’s impossible to be mad at her for more than three minutes at a time. One look at those big blue eyes and anyone would crack.”

Lofty laughed. “I’m glad you’re friends again.”

“Me too,” said Dom. “I talked to Jez, too.”

“Oh, yeah, I thought I saw you with him just now! So, things are okay between you two?”

“More or less,” said Dom. “I mean, we’re probably never going to be best mates, but he’s a decent guy.”

They drifted over to the table of snacks, and they gradually slipped into an easier flow of conversation, leaving Dom to expend most of his effort to avoid getting crumbs all down the front of his shirt as Lofty told him about spending the weekend at Anglia Ruskin with Robyn and Charlotte.

“She sounds like a sweet kid,” said Dom, though he’d never been all that fond of babies.

“She’s the best,” said Lofty. “She’s babbling away all the time now, and she can even say ‘Lofty’, when she feels like it.”

“How’s Robyn?” Dom asked.

“Pretty great, by all accounts,” Lofty said. “She’s started seeing a new guy recently, and they seem pretty happy together. He treats Charlotte like a princess, apparently.”

“Oh, so you guys aren’t – you weren’t – a couple?” Dom had blurted it out before he could stop himself, and only just resisted slapping both his hands over his mouth in horror at his loose tongue. Lofty blinked at him, forehead creased in surprise, and shook his head.

“No, we never went out together,” he said. After a pause, he added: “She’s basically my big sister. I’ve known her since I can remember.”

“Wow,” said Dom, acutely aware of how inane he must sound. It seemed like tonight’s theme was him saying stupid things to Lofty. “Sorry, again, that was none of my business.”

“It’s okay,” said Lofty. “I can see why someone might assume, we’re pretty close.”

“God, though, I’d be pretty weirded out if anyone thought me and Zosia were a thing,” said Dom, shuddering. “Although my Dad did once ask. I think it was just a pipe dream of his, though.”

“Are you not out to him?” Lofty asked, then flushed. “You don’t have to answer that.”

“No, he knows, he just likes to imagine one day I might change my mind,” said Dom. “I think my mum’s slowly trying get him used to the idea. Like with that thing about how frogs can be tricked into being cooked because they don’t realise the temperature’s changing in the water they’re sitting in. A gay kiss on _Hollyoaks_ here, a few pictures of me at Pride there… one day he might boil over into acceptance.”

Lofty laughed. “That’s kind of how I imagine my dad would react,” he said, then stilled, as if he’d revealed too much.

“He doesn’t know?”

“No,” said Lofty, looking away. “We don’t really talk about that sort of stuff. Robyn knows, obviously. She was really good about it. I’ve stayed with her most summers since I was pretty young, so she’s always been there.”

“Was it Robyn’s attic that got you the nickname, then?” Dom asked.

“Yes. Her poor aunt – she hasn’t been able to look me in the eye since.”

Dom let out an involuntary bark of laughter. “At least you weren’t wandering around naked at the time.”

“There is that,” Lofty agreed. “But I’m not sure she saw it that way. Good job Robyn’s parents found it hilarious, once they knew she was going to be fine.”

“They sound pretty cool,” said Dom.

“Yeah, they really are,” Lofty told him, twisting and untwisting the cap on his bottle. “Luckily for me.”

“Yeah,” said Dom, his mind wandering to his own parents and their numerous failures – and the occasional success, at least on his mum’s part. He took a few gulps of his drink and nodded at the bottle in Lofty’s hand. “What are you drinking?”

“Just orange juice,” said Lofty. “I don’t really drink alcohol.”

“Of course,” said Dom. He raised his bottle, and after a second, Lofty lifted his own. “Cheers,” Dom said, knocking their drinks together.

“Cheers,” Lofty echoed, a small smile playing on his lips.

They spoke mainly to each other for the rest of the night, though at a few points, Dom did catch Jasmine’s eye as she mingled with the group. Once or twice, she gave him a wide smirk and an exaggerated thumbs-up behind Lofty’s back. Dom tried not to roll his eyes, or to take any notice of how drunk he was slowly becoming; every time he felt anxious about whether he was talking too much, or too little, he took a drink. Soon, the entire bottle of vodka and coke was drained dry.

Dom licked his lips. Lofty was saying something about heading to bed, and he only just stopped himself from laughing.

“Maybe you should come, too,” said Lofty, and then Dom really did break down in giggles. Lofty looked puzzled, then mortified. “No, I mean – I think maybe you should go to bed. Alone. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Dom repeated. ‘Run Away With Me’ by Carly Rae Jepsen was playing from the speakers, and he found himself humming along to the lyrics. _Baby, take me to the feeling…_

“Okay,” said Lofty, resting a hand on Dom’s shoulder and offering his other to pull him to his feet. Dom stood too fast and wobbled on his unsteady feet. Jasmine, chatting to a fine-boned skyscraper of a girl across the room, paused to shoot him a concerned look. Lofty raised a hand. “We’re off, now!” he called to her, then, in a lower voice: “I’ll get him to his room safely.”

Jasmine crinkled her nose at Dom and nodded.

“My hero,” said Dom, leaning into Lofty’s side. He wasn’t sure when he’d crossed the line from tipsy into full-on wasted, but he was definitely past the point of no return.

“Okay,” said Lofty again, manoeuvring them both clumsily towards the door. “Could you, uh, try maybe using your legs a bit?”

Dom made an exaggerated effort to pick his feet up, clinging to Lofty perhaps a little bit more than he strictly needed to. His left hand was trapped against Lofty’s chest, and he could feel the slightly too-fast beat of his heart through the thin fabric of his shirt. He stared at the side of Lofty’s face as they staggered across into their courtyard.

They’d never been this close before; Dom could see how long Lofty’s eyelashes were, how his lips parted in concentration as he steered Dom around the pathway with a gentle hand on his bicep, and how the sparse lighting on the side of their building fell on his cheekbones, hollowing them out.

Somehow, Lofty got them both up the stairs to their corridor uninjured. They paused in front of Dom’s door.

“So,” said Lofty.

“So,” said Dom, leaning back against the door. The air between them felt thick and sweet, heavy like treacle in his lungs. He was in that phase of drunkenness where his body didn’t quite feel his; he was just a step behind everything, and the corridor was spinning around him.

All he could focus on was Lofty: sweet, earnest Lofty, who was currently wearing a small, bemused smile. Dom wanted to – he wanted –

He realised, objectively, at a slight remove from his actions, that he was leaning in closer. That he was about to press his lips to Lofty’s, to kiss him – and then Lofty jerked his head backwards, stepping out of Dom’s range.

“What was that?” he said, a thread of confusion that almost sounded scared running through the question. Dom closed his eyes and let the dots of light behind his eyelids continue spinning wildly out of control.

“I – don’t, I thought,” said Dom, unable to articulate his reasons any further. He opened his eyes to find Lofty staring back at him, looking like a rabbit caught in the sweep of a car’s headlights.

“We’re friends, Dom,” he said, his voice strained tight, sharp as flint. “Friends.”

Dom’s faculties were beginning to catch up with him, the nauseous, churning sensation in his gut giving way to a flood of acid-tanged humiliation.

“Yeah,” he said, recoiling with a grimace at the bitter taste on his tongue. “Stupid me for thinking anyone like you would ever – would ever want –” He cut himself off, feeling unbearably small and slow. “Fuck this,” he said, fumbling in his pocket for his key card.

Lofty didn’t move away. He made a barely audible sound in the back of his throat but said nothing. Dom narrowly avoided ripping the pocket of his trousers as he yanked the card out and pressed it to his door handle.

“Are you okay?” Lofty asked, when Dom finally got the sensor to beep and turn green. “Will you be okay?”

The laughter that burst out of Dom sounded more like a hysterical sob. “I’m fine,” he said.

“Dom, I never meant to –”

“I know, I know! It’s me, not you. I know that. I just want – I want to go to bed.”

“Okay,” said Lofty. “I’m sorry, Dom. But we can’t. I can’t, I can’t.”

Dom shook his head and barged through the door to his room shoulders-first, trying not to fall flat on his face and compound his drunken project of self-abasement.

“Sorry,” he muttered, the word slurring on his lips. “I – sorry.”

He slammed the door in Lofty’s face, before he could see the pity on it, or the horror, or hear whatever sugar-coated lie Lofty would tell him, trying to be kind. Why did he have to be so _fucking_ kind?

Dom staggered over to his bed, kicked his shoes off, and lay with his face to the ceiling, staring blankly into the dark of the room. He heard footsteps, and then the beep of Lofty’s door opening. It closed with a quiet click, leaving Dom with nothing but the erratic ebb and flow of his own inebriated mind. He groaned, screwing his eyes shut against the sickening onslaught.

What had he done?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go from bad to worse as Dom's mum pays a visit, misunderstandings abound, and essay deadlines loom despite it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is such a miserable chapter, so I apologise in advance! You know what they say, things have to get better before they get worse... warnings for this chapter include referenced abuse (Dom treats Isaac's abuse quite flippantly in one remark), a bit of potentially uterus-clenching IUD consideration, and strained parent-child relationships.

“I’m getting an IUD,” Zosia announced at brunch with Dom the next day. They were sitting at a tiny table crammed into the back of a café on the road running behind Christ’s College, waiting for their avocado and egg toast (with added bacon for Dom).

It had taken a gargantuan effort on Dom’s part to force himself out of bed that morning, especially given the prospect of bumping into Lofty in the bathroom, but the alternative had been lying in bed all day in his clothes from the previous night, thinking about what a colossal idiot he was.

Now, in an unsurprising turn of events, he was slumped in a hard, scratchy wooden chair, nursing a dehydration headache and pulling apart the ageing lamination on the brunch menu in front of him – all the while thinking about what a colossal idiot he was.

“Congratulations?” he offered. Zosia batted at his fingers.

“Stop that,” she said. “Yeah, I think it’s the best decision in the long term. It means I don’t have to worry about protection for years once it’s in.”

“Isn’t it meant to be really painful, though?” asked Dom. He remembered helping at the sexual health clinic at Addenbrookes in his first year, and how his gut had clenched in sympathy when he’d learnt about exactly how IUDs were inserted – and what could happen if the uterus decided to expel them from the body.

“It can be,” said Zosia. “But the insertion’s over pretty quickly. And plenty of people get through it fine, don’t they?”

“Same goes for giving birth,” said Dom. “I still wouldn’t want to try it myself.”

“Well, I have been looking it up, you know,” said Zosia, a little testy. “I didn’t just decide this minute. I think I can cope with it. And like I said, I wouldn’t have to deal with sorting out contraception for ages. I’d probably not get as many side-effects as I do with the Pill, either.”

“Sounds useful,” Dom admitted, starting to pick at the laminated corners of the menu once more. “I’m so glad I don’t have to worry about getting pregnant.”

“Mm.” Zosia gave him a dark look, then took the menu out of his hands and put it back behind the salt shaker. “So, what’s wrong with you, then?”

“Hm?” Dom blinked up at her. He thought he’d been doing a reasonably good job of hiding how shit he felt. “Just hungover, that’s all. Once I’ve had some food I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t give me that,” she said. “You haven’t fallen out with Jasmine again, have you?”

“No, of course I haven’t,” said Dom. “Really, it’s nothing.”

She let the subject drop until their food had arrived, then continued her interrogation with renewed persistence.

“So, if it’s not Jasmine, who? Not that Jez? Or Morven?”

“You’re not going to let this drop, are you?” he asked. Zosia shook her head and gave him an expectant look. “Fine.” Dom conceded. “It’s Lofty. Well. It’s not Lofty, it’s more that – I – so, I found out he isn’t straight last night.”

“And that’s a problem because?”

“It’s a problem because I got drunk and tried to kiss him.”

Zosia’s eyes widened. She chewed her forkful of egg and avocado carefully before replying. “Right. And he didn’t react like you hoped he would?”

“Well, I mean, I don’t know what I was hoping for. But yeah, he completely rejected me and it was awful and humiliating and all those other things I knew it would be, but it’s more the fact that I did it in the first place. Do I even like him like that? I thought he was straight until about twelve hours ago. God, why am I like this?”

“Like what?” Zosia asked.

“A complete and utter fucking disaster, that’s what,” said Dom, gloomily shovelling toast into his mouth.

“Oh, come on,” said Zosia. “You’re not the only walking catastrophe in this group of friends.”

“Gee, thanks, Zosh.”

“Well, I’m not going to pretend you’ve got it all together,” she said. “What sort of friend would that make me?”

“A less annoyingly smug one,” Dom muttered, then paused. “What do I _do_? I’m never going to be able to face him now.”

“Yes, you can, and you will,” said Zosia. “He knows you were drunk, right? Who hasn’t made a mistake or seven while they were drunk?” She paused. “Remember that time Morven tried to take a selfie with Arthur by the river and accidentally pushed him in?”

Dom snorted, despite himself. “Who could forget?” It had happened not long after the two of them had started going out, and Morven’s mortification lasted for weeks. Arthur, meanwhile, had been given a shock blanket and a course of antibiotics to stop him contracting Weil’s disease, but the only real consequence of his little dip into the Cam had been falling even more hopelessly in love with Morven and her tipsily-enthusiastic inability to judge her own strength.

Zosia gave him an encouraging smile. “See? We’ve all been there.”

“It’s not the same,” said Dom. “We’re not a couple, for one. And he wouldn’t ever think of me like that, anyway. He knows too much now. I told him about what happened with Isaac. I – I showed him the medal.”

Zosia almost choked on her toast, and drew back, coughing. “No. What, really?”

“Yeah, I know. I – he was – he was good about it. He was kind.” Kinder than I deserved, a little voice at the back of his head whispered. Dom slapped it down.

“Ok _ay_ ,” said Zosia, drawing out the syllables, though her eyes were still watering from her coughing fit. “So you told him everything about Isaac. Why would that mean he wouldn’t think of you in a romantic way?”

“Who said anything about romance?” Dom said, alarmed. This was all getting out of hand. He’d made a stupid drunken error of judgement. It wasn’t like he was in love with the guy, for crying out loud!

“Whatever,” said Zosia, waving a hand. “Why wouldn’t he think of you as someone he wanted to kiss, just because you told him about Isaac?”

Dom shrugged and looked away, drawing patterns in the crumbs on his plate. There were a million reasons, and surely Zosia could work at least an A4 page’s worth out for herself.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. Zosia opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. “It really doesn’t, Zosh. I’ll get over it.”

He tried not to think about what, exactly, ‘it’ was.

*

The next day marked the beginning of the fifth week of Lent term, which heralded what Cambridge students called the ‘Week Five Blues’, and what most normal people tended to call ‘the sudden manifestation of moderate-to-severe stress-related health problems previously masked or dismissed by their sufferers’.

Dom visited his pigeonhole to check his mail on Tuesday and found a self-care pack from the welfare team and the college nurse – a little orange stress ball, a 15p bar of fudge, a list of mental health charities, a guide on how to pull all-nighters without collapsing halfway through, and a packet of Love Hearts.

“I suppose their hearts are in the right place,” said Jasmine, whose stress ball was neon green.

On Wednesday, Dom dived into a toilet cubicle and hid there for ten minutes to avoid having to see or speak to Lofty, who was brushing his teeth at one of the sinks when Dom entered the bathroom. It made him later for his lectures than he already had been, but even the death knell of Serena Campbell’s glare from her podium at the front of the hall, as he slunk into the back row at twenty-past ten, wasn’t enough to make him regret it.

When he needed to use the library to research cardiology case studies for Jac Naylor the next day, he decided to pack up his stuff and trek out to the University Library, a giant, phallic monstrosity that looked more like a dystopian workhouse than one of the UK’s few copyright libraries. Being in college was starting to feel like being trapped inside a net that was slowly closing in on him, and the idea of bumping into Lofty in the college library was enough to send him running for the vaguely totalitarian hills of the UL.

After a minute of hovering on the forecourt, building himself up to take the first step through the revolving doors, he checked himself in through the security gates. Pausing to check the map at the top of the main staircase, he wound his way up to the fifth floor of the South Wing, which seemed for the most part to house a mixture of gardening books, Polish language journals, and cookery magazines.

As a result, it wasn’t hard to find plenty of empty workspaces to use. He chose a table with a library computer at the far end of the stacks and set up. He managed to work in peace for about an hour and a half before his phone began to ring. The sole other occupant of the room, a guy with blonde stubble and close-set, furious eyes, glared over at him from behind a stack of dusty books about Armenian goat-herders. Dom made a face at him as he headed out into the stairwell to take the call – it was Morven.

“Hey Morv, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s just that your mum is here.”

“What?” Dom found himself looking around frantically, as if his mother was about to pop out, shrieking and waving, from behind one of the stacks. “Where?”

“In college,” Morven said. “She’s been looking for you. Her phone’s dead, or else she’d have called herself.”

“Is she with you now?”

“No, she went off to sit in the Buttery. I told her I’d let her know if I got in touch with you.”

“I’m working,” said Dom, cursing under his breath. His mother turning up unannounced was hardly ever a good thing, whether the problem ended up being hers or his. “I’m at the UL, it’ll be ages before I finish up and get all the way back into town. Why is she here?”

“She didn’t say,” said Morven, then, lowering her voice, added: “She didn’t seem majorly upset about anything, though. I think she just thought she’d have more chance of seeing you if she didn’t give you any warning.”

“Well, she’s right about that,” said Dom. “Ugh. Thanks for the heads-up. Will you tell her to wait there for a bit, maybe get some coffee or something? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

He rushed back to his work station and scooped all his papers back into his bag. Luckily, he had all the notes from the primary sources that he would need for his essay for Jac, so he wouldn’t be forced to make another trip out once he’d dispatched his mother.

“Why me, why me, why me?” he muttered under his breath as he left, ignoring the look _that_ got him from the Armenian goat-herd researcher in the corner.

The quickest way back to Christ’s from the University Library was to cut through Clare College, which was bisected by the main road. It was an exceptionally pretty college, but Dom paid little attention to the architecture and curated gardens as he power-walked through the swathes of tourists taking pictures. He did remember to duck through the right-hand arch of the gate across the bridge, however: the superstition that Cantabs who walked through the central arch would fail their degrees was probably bullshit, but powerful enough in the student imagination that he wasn’t about to risk it.

He arrived at the Buttery sweating and a little bit breathless, and hesitated for a few seconds outside the doors to take a few deep gasps of air. Then, he strode into the bar, looking round for his mother.

“Dazzle!”

He spun around to find her beaming at him from the sofa nearest the bar. Behind her, Mickey glanced up from cleaning the coffee machine to quirk an eyebrow at him in apparent amusement. Dom sighed.

“Mum, I’ve told you a million times not to call me that,” he said.

“Well, hello to you, too!” she said.

“Oh, God, alright – hello, Mum.” He went over and gave her a hug. She clung to him for perhaps a second or two longer than normal, and he drew back with a frown. “What’s the matter? Why are you here?”

“Do I need a reason to come and see you?” she asked with an airy laugh. “You’re my son!”

“A few hours’ warning might have been nice,” said Dom. “I do have a degree to study for, you know.”

“I know that,” she said. “But you need a break every now and then, too! It’s not good to be all work and no play.”

Dom refrained from telling her that spending extended periods of time with her often felt like harder work than a two-hour supervision with Jac Naylor.

“So, nothing’s wrong, then?” he pressed. She shook her head.

“No, silly, nothing! Well, I had a bit of a row this morning with your dad, but he’ll be over it by now…”

Dom ran a hand through his hair. “Right. Was this row by any chance about coming to visit me?”

His mother froze, the smile sliding off her face. “No, darling, why would you think that?”

“Do you want a chronological or an alphabetical list?”

She gave him a disapproving look. “Don’t, Darren.”

“Whatever,” said Dom. It wasn’t worth starting an argument about his father: he already knew where they all stood on that score. “Morven said you needed to charge your phone?”

They walked up to his room, where she spent ten minutes switching between cooing at its size and criticizing his unmade bed and the pile of dirty clothes lying on one of his chairs.

“If you’d told me you were coming, I might have been able to tidy up beforehand,” he pointed out, and she pouted.

“I didn’t tell you because I knew you wouldn’t be happy for me to visit,” she said. “I’m just worried about you, Darren.”

“Why?” he asked. “I’m fine, honestly. Normal uni stress, obviously, but other than that, it’s all okay.”

“Really?” His mum grabbed his hands and held them, palms up, scrutinising his face closely. Looking for the cracks. Dom sighed.

“Really,” he said. “I’m _fine_ , Mum.”

“It’s just, you haven’t called recently, and it –” she broke off, biting her lip. Dom narrowed his eyes at her, and she turned her head away from him.

“It what?”

“It reminds me of when you wouldn’t talk to me over summer,” she said, the words falling into the empty space between them like rocks. Dom swallowed, hard.

“I – Mum, I didn’t realise.”

“You don’t have to ring me, of course!” she said, in a brighter, faker voice. “You’re an adult, you can do whatever you like. But I just wanted – I just needed to know how things were going for you.”

“Well, they really are going fine,” Dom lied. “I’m just in the middle of some big projects. I’ve been really busy.” The excuses felt flimsy on his tongue.

“Okay,” his mum said. “That’s okay, love. And how’s Zosia? And Morven, how’s she holding up?”

“They’re doing good,” said Dom.

“And what about that boy you liked – Lofty, wasn’t it?”

“Mum!” Dom had hoped she would have forgotten about Lofty. “I think he’s fine. I don’t really see him much.”

“You live on the same corridor,” she said, confused. “Don’t you ever bump into him?”

“A bit,” said Dom. “But we don’t really hang out or anything.”

“Oh,” said his mum, sounding disappointed. “I wanted to meet him.”

“Why?”

“Is it a crime for a mother to be curious, Dazzle? I just wanted to know what he’s like. To see if he’s good enough for you.”

“Mother! There’s no need. It’s not like that.”

“What, why not? Is he straight?”

“That’s none of your business!” said Dom, shaking his head in exasperation at her. “And so what if he isn’t straight? There’s no law saying that we’d automatically have to get together, Mum.”

“I know that, love, but…” Again, his mum paused. Dom rolled his eyes.

“Whatever it is you’re thinking, say it.”

“Well, I think – darling, you know you deserve better, right?”

“What, than Lofty? You haven’t even seen a picture of him, how would you know?”

His mum gave him an uncommonly sharp look, and then stepped forward, clasping his hands in her own.

“That’s not what I mean, Darren, and you know it,” she said. “I meant that you deserve better than – better than Isaac.”

“Sure,” said Dom, as lightly as he could, his eyes flicking down at where their hands met. “I could have told you that.”

“Could you?” She tilted his chin up until he was looking at her again. “Do you really believe it, Darren? Because you _should_.” The words cracked in her throat, but she pressed on, her voice thick and fierce. “You’re my beautiful boy, and I wish I could make you see that you deserve the world and more.”

Dom let her squeeze his hands in hers.

“Sure, Mum,” he said. It sounded dull and trite even to his ears. His mum patted his cheek.

“One day,” she said. “One day I hope you’ll see what I mean.” She shifted back on the balls of her feet, and tilted her head, seeming to be weighing up her next words. Finally, a little above a whisper, she said: “I love you, Dazzle.”

Dom tried to smile at her. “Ditto,” he said.

*

It was nearly half-past seven by the time he finally saw her off from the car park in her little white Volvo. All he wanted to do was collapse into bed and forget the whole day had ever happened, but he still had the case study work to finish for Jac: it was due first thing in the morning, which meant that he should be finishing it that night, no matter how long it took.

He watched and waved until his mother had inched out of the automatic gates and pottered off up the one-way street, before he turned to go back into his building, which had a back entrance facing onto the car park. Halfway up the stairs, he heard a crash, and a familiar voice echoing down the building:

“Fuck!”

Dom blinked. That was Lofty – was he in trouble? He was just about to rush around the corner and up the rest of the stairs to see if he needed any urgent help, when he heard another person, this time a posh guy with a clipped, haughty accent, say:

“Oh, for God’s sake, Ben!”

Dom caught a glimpse of Lofty scrabbling around on all fours, trying to collect a pile of books and papers he seemed to have dropped. Standing above him with his arms folded across his chest – and really, the universe just loved fucking with Dom, didn’t it – was the guy who’d been glaring at him in the library earlier that day. Armenian goat-herd man. He ducked back down the stairs to hide from view, but something kept him from leaving the stairwell altogether.

“You’re being even clumsier than usual today,” said the goat-herd guy. “What’s going on here?”

“Going on? I don’t – I don’t have a clue what you mean by that,” said Lofty.

The man with him muttered something Dom didn’t catch, then said: “Please don’t tell me it’s that boy.”

Dom’s head snapped up.

“Stop trying to get in touch with my emotions,” said Lofty, in a tone that sounded half-teasing and half-annoyed. “There’s a reason you’re not the one doing Psychology.”

“Believe me, I have no desire to get ‘in touch’ with anyone’s emotions, least of all yours,” the other guy said, his tone dripping with disdain. “You’ve been acting oddly, that’s all. It’s concerning.”

“Dylan! A little bit of help, here?”

There was a momentary silence – perhaps Dylan had joined Lofty on his hands and knees to pick up books, though Dom couldn’t quite imagine it. Then, Lofty spoke again:

“Alright, it _is_ him.”

“You know, when we met up today, I really didn’t anticipate filling the role of the Agony Aunt to your infatuated teenager act,” said Dylan.

“Why did you ask, then?” said Lofty. “And I’m not infatuated, by the way. I’m just not sure what to do.”

Dom’s knuckles were turning white as he gripped the banister to keep himself in place. They couldn’t be talking about –

“And you think I’m the best person to confide in, do you?” said Dylan sceptically. Lofty snorted.

“Well, you’re the only one who’s asked so far,” he said.

“Fine. If you must tell me, then, get on with it.”

“He tried to kiss me,” said Lofty. “He was drunk.” Dom let himself sink down to sit on one of the steps, leaning his elbow on his knees to bury his head in his hands. They _were_ talking about him. Unless, of course, Lofty was regularly assailed by drunk men trying to kiss him.

“Right,” said Dylan. “And you –”

“I pulled away,” said Lofty. “I was sober. It wouldn’t have been right.”

Dom’s heart fluttered against his ribs. Did that mean Lofty might have kissed him back if he hadn’t been drunk? He shoved the thought away, angry at himself. He never learnt; Lofty was likely just making excuses. He was too damn nice, even now, to admit the truth.

Lofty was still talking, in a quieter voice now, seeming to worry that he might be overheard. “I’m just afraid that he’s only interested in me because he thinks I’m some sort of… I don’t know, like, some sort of saint or something. Someone who never puts a foot wrong, never says or does the wrong thing. You know I can’t be that person. I’m not.”

“Why on earth would he think that?” Dylan asked. Dom dug his nails into his cheeks. As if it wasn’t bad enough that Lofty thought Dom had assigned him some sort of deified status, he was going to tell the angry Armenian goat-herd researcher about one of the most harrowing conversations Dom had ever had, and there was nothing he could do to stop him, short of storming upstairs and starting a fight.

“Well – I – just, I was, well. He told me something, I listened to him talk about it. I can’t say what.” Lofty said in a rush.

“I don’t really follow,” said Dylan. Dom drew in a shallow breath, screwing his eyes shut.

“I think he might only _think_ he likes me because I’ve not been cruel to him.”

“You have a pretty high opinion of yourself, don’t you?” Dom couldn’t bear it anymore. He was on his feet and up on the landing before he had even consciously decided to stop eavesdropping and make his presence known. The books in Lofty’s arms slipped from his grasp again as he spun around, and he flinched at the resulting clatter, face stricken.

“Dom!” he said, two reddish blotches growing to stain his cheeks. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean –”

“You didn’t mean for me to overhear you,” Dom finished for him. He kept his sights on Lofty, ignoring the little holes Dylan’s eyes were burning into the side of his face. “You shouldn’t have been talking about it in the middle of the corridor we both live on, then. Or better yet, you shouldn’t have been talking about it at all!”

“What, like you’ve kept it all to yourself? Are you telling me you haven’t even told Zosia?”

Dom blinked at the sudden, unexpected heat in Lofty’s reply; the sting of it prickled deep in his chest, and the pain blossomed out. “That’s different; you weren’t sitting the next table over, listening to me do it!”

“I didn’t know you were listening in on me, either!” Lofty spluttered. Beside him, Dylan began edging back towards the fire door.

“I think I’ll, um, leave you two capable adults to sort yourselves out, then,” he said, and beat a hasty retreat to Lofty’s room. Dom turned back on Lofty, annoyance flaring from the pain squeezing at his chest cavity.

“I wasn’t trying to listen to you! I was walking back to my room, which is _on this corridor_ , in case you forgot, and you were just out here casually discussing the fact that you apparently think I worship the ground you walk on, like you’re some kind of god to me because you haven’t punched me in the face yet!”

Lofty’s face fell. “That’s not what I was trying to say, Dom,” he said, softer now. “Really, I was just – I thought – oh, Christ. I’ve made a mess of this.” He let his hands coast through his curls and rest against his temple, shaking his head. “I was just worried that you might be looking for – that you might want something that I can’t offer you.”

“I don’t need _anything_ from you,” Dom spat out. He went to move past Lofty to get to his room, jerking away on instinct when Lofty tried to reach out a hand for him.

“Leave me the fuck alone,” he said, letting the words snap out like an elastic band against a wrist. He watched the hurt flash across Lofty’s face as it hit him, and tried to think, _good_ , as he walked away.

He made it into his room and slammed the door shut before he let the tenuous grip he’d been keeping on his control slip. He sat on the edge of his bed, hands balled into fists, trying not to let the tears rolling down his cheeks turn into louder sobs. The last thing he needed was for Lofty and his angry posh friend to hear him bawling his eyes out from down the corridor.

Why did he always do this? He’d let his hopes climb too high, when he should have hacked them back down to size the second they stirred. Of course Lofty wasn’t ever going to be interested; and it wasn’t just because he thought Dom might harbour some weird complex about him. It was the whole package. He would forever be nothing but a victim in Lofty’s eyes, unable to want anything for what it was without the shadow of Isaac lurking in the background like some gurning pantomime villain.

Maybe Lofty was right: maybe Dom did only want him because he was the diametric opposite of Isaac. Maybe it wasn’t anything to do with Lofty himself: maybe it was all a result of Dom projecting his image of the ideal man over Lofty’s real face. Maybe he shouldn’t want that. Maybe he was giving Lofty too much credit for being kind, for being funny, for listening, and for being light years out of Dom’s league. Maybe Dom didn’t want him at all.

Dom wiped furiously at his eyes, the attempt to force his sobs back down his throat leaving an aching lump in his windpipe. He dragged himself over to his desk and slumped in the chair, booting up his laptop.

He rested his head on the table while it turned on, trying to let the cool, polished wood and the soft thrum of his laptop’s fan calm him down. There was an essay to be done, no matter how shit he felt. He didn’t think the mighty Jac Naylor would accept ‘bruised pride following romantic rejection’ as an excuse for a late hand-in.

Maybe it didn’t matter, really, whatever the truth was about him and any feelings he might or might not have for Lofty.

He was fucked either way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cantab is short for 'Cantabrigian', AKA a member of the University of Cambridge.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dom makes a momentous decision, with the 'help' of advice from Jac Naylor, of all people, and takes tentative steps towards rebuilding a friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO! This chapter is probably less of a downer than the previous... well, however many it's been, but there's still warnings for discussed abuse (physical and emotional), gaslighting, and victim-blaming. I also still have a lot of feelings about Jac's dreadful 'advice' to Dom when he asked her what he should do after Isaac destroyed Arthur's medal in-show, so I kind of wanted to play with that and see how she'd offer advice in a very different context.

Dom woke up in a foul mood, having snatched barely three hours of restless sleep. He didn’t remember his dreams, but there was a faint metallic taste in his mouth, and he had the unsettled anxious energy that usually followed a nightmare crackling just under his skin. 

The thought of breakfast brought with it a wave of nausea, so he skipped it and grabbed enough change from his desk drawer to catch a bus down to Addenbrookes for his ten o’clock supervision with Jac Naylor.

He almost ran into Mickey Ellisson on his brisk walk through college; he was distracted, on his phone, and shot Dom an apologetic glance as he dodged out of his way.

“Scott, it’s none of your fucking business where I spent the night,” he was muttering into his handset. “I’m not a kid, I’m twenty-two. I don’t care what Mum says, tell her whatever you like. No, I won’t…”

Dom sped up, lengthening his strides to get out of earshot. Trouble was brewing in the Ellisson household, then. He spared a brief second to hope, for everyone’s sake, that Mickey’s family wouldn’t get  _ too _ curious about whose bed he’d been sleeping in.

He was in the queue for the bus down to the hospital when he got the text. Somehow, before he’d even opened the message to see who it was from, he  _ knew _ . He had hoped that telling Isaac to fuck off the other week would finally get the message across, but here he was, undiminished, asking:

_ if u hate me txting u so much, why haven’t u blocked me?  _

Dom’s hands clenched around the phone. It was a fair question, he supposed. It was even one he’d asked himself a few times. There had been plenty of opportunity to cut the final string tying him to Isaac. Why wasn’t he eagerly reaching for the scissors?

_ Maybe I like being reminded of why I should never have dated you in the first place _ , he wrote back, and immediately regretted pressing ‘send’. He knew exactly what Zosia would say if she found out: he was just giving Isaac ammunition, making it easier for him to try and talk his way back into Dom’s head.

Five minutes later, Isaac replied:  _ we had good times, Dom, don’t forget them just bc we had issues too. x _

Dom’s skin burned with rage that bubbled just beneath the surface. It was as if Isaac had been part of an entirely different relationship to the one Dom had been subjected to. Did Isaac genuinely not remember how terrible things had been, or did he just wish Dom would forget?

_ ‘Good times’, really? Like that time you smashed my phone up and broke two of my ribs because I listened to a msg from Zosia? Those good times? _

He was on the bus, halfway to Addenbrookes, alternating between biting his nails and checking his phone every few seconds, when Isaac finally texted back.

_ you know it didn’t happen like that. i’m not saying I didn’t treat you badly, but you were just as messed up as me. i’ve been getting help w/ my anger. have you been getting any for your probs? x _

Dom wished, with every fibre of his itching, embarrassed, furious being, that he could just leave it there. That he could just walk away from the conversation, accept that Isaac was taking some form of twisted pleasure in fucking with his head, and leave him to his distortions.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t let Isaac have the last word. Isaac wasn’t just an unfeeling monster, was he? Surely there was  _ something _ Dom could do or say to impress the sheer wrongness of their entire relationship on him.

_ You’re lying to yourself, Isaac. I never hurt you like that. I wasn’t the one who always lashed out. _

The bus pulled into the car park at the main entrance to Addenbrookes, and Dom joined the small queue of people filing off the bus, thanking the driver in muted voices.

_ but you had just as much a part in those arguments as me _ , said Isaac’s text. _ we hurt each other. we both need to take some responsibility for our mistakes, don’t we? x _

Dom’s shoulders shook as he stopped dead in the middle of car park, staring down at his phone. Some people behind him muttered as they were forced to veer around him. A car beeped its horn twice at him, impatient, and he shifted to the pavement with barely a glance up at the driver.

_ You really haven’t changed at all, have you? _

Dom scrubbed at his face with his palms and made himself return to reality for long enough to get inside the hospital and press the button for the lift to the floor he needed to be on to get to Jac’s office. Inside the lift, shoved up against the side to accommodate two nurses pushing a patient on a gurney, his phone buzzed in his pocket once more.

_ you used to love me as i was. x _

It took him a few seconds to master typing his response; his fingers felt too big and clumsy to press the right buttons.

_ I thought I did _ , he wrote.  _ I was wrong. _

Jac answered his knock on her office door with a barked: “In!”

Dom pushed the door open and shuffled inside. Jac gave him an unimpressed once-over, taking in the dark circles under his eyes and the stubble he hadn’t quite had time to shave off that morning.

“Someone pulled an all-nighter, I see,” she observed. Dom shrugged his backpack off his shoulders.

“I met the deadline,” he said.

“Barely,” she said. “But yes, you did. Sit down, then.”

The supervision began as any supervision with Jac tended to – with Dom sitting there in increasingly numb despair as Jac tore into his ideas and his essay technique with equal parts disinterest and ferocity. 

She paused every now and then, inviting him to mount a defence of his work; most weeks, he tried to put up at least a sliver of resistance to her relentless interrogation, no matter how brilliant or indisputable her disagreements were, but today his mind was determined to wander away from the session. He was  _ tired _ , and not just because of a poor night’s sleep. His skull felt as though it had been lined with lead.

“You’re being unusually reticent today,” Jac informed him after fifteen minutes of listening to his weak, mumbled counter-arguments. “Some enthusiasm wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Sorry,” said Dom, straightening up and trying to inject a look of rapt attention into his features. Jac gave him a flat stare.

“I’ve got dozens of patients I’m currently unable to treat because I’m teaching you. Don’t waste my time.”

They carried on without further trouble for another twenty minutes; Dom still didn’t quite feel like his brain was in the right gear, but he stumbled through Jac’s probing with as much vigour as he could muster. He dug deep for answers that would make her tilt her head in consideration before she pointed out the flaws in his logic.

She was midway through an explanation of a note she’d made at the bottom of his essay when his phone buzzed loudly over the top of her words. Dom’s felt every muscle in his body seize up as Jac’s jaw shut with an audible click. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms.

“Sorry,” he croaked, his mouth gone dry. “I must have forgotten to put it on silent.”

There was another buzz; it seemed to fill the entire room, now that Jac’s attention had been caught by it. Dom hastily bent over in his chair to get the phone out of his bag and turn it to silent. He wanted to close his eyes, to refuse to even catch a glimpse at whatever Isaac had sent him.  _ Not now, not now! _ Not in front of Jac. 

The phone felt heavy in his hands, and he hesitated over it, forgetting for a second that he was meant to be in a lesson. Then, Jac cleared her throat.

“Give it here,” she said. Dom blinked up at her.

“What?”

“Give it here,” she repeated, holding out her hand and gesturing impatiently. “You clearly can’t focus when you have it to hand, so I’ll keep it until the supervision is over.”

Dom handed it over, feeling like a chastised school child. Jac sniffed, and flicked the screen with her thumb to bring down the settings and silence the phone. There was a moment when Dom thought it was fine, that he’d got away with it – but as her eyes scanned the display, her face stilled. What had been a look of unamused irritation shifted into a carefully blank mask. 

Dom’s shoulders tensed. Had she recognized who the messages were from? He knew Sacha had told her about the ‘special circumstances’ that demanded all staff give him certain accommodations if necessary. 

He drew in a breath, waiting for a snide comment, but she said nothing. She placed the phone down on top of her in-tray with a small nod, letting her face crease back into a milder form of her earlier irritation.

“Where was I?” she said, picking his essay back up from her lap and scanning it. “Oh, right.”

Dom let his eyes flutter closed in relief. The remainder of the supervision passed as painlessly as any session with Jac could; anything short of being hung, drawn and quartered was something he usually considered a win. Today, however, he just felt as if he’d been cracked and hollowed out like an egg with a particularly soft shell.

As the clock hit half-eleven and they drew to a close, she handed him his essay back, with her comments emblazoned across it in her bright red doctor’s scrawl. Dom made to stand, about to ask if he was now allowed his phone back too; she held up a hand to stop him.

Dom hoisted his bag onto his hip, prepared for another earful on respecting her time and effort.

“I’m sorry I was distracted today,” he said, trying to pre-empt her. “It won’t happen again.”

A muscle in Jac’s jaw jumped beneath her skin. “I wouldn’t presume to tell you what you can and can’t do with your time outside this room,” she said. “And I don’t expect you’d listen to me if I did. But if I were you, and if those messages were from who I think sent them, I would consider my options very carefully before deciding whether to respond.”

“I don’t –”

“I don’t want to hear it,” she said. “I’m not your counsellor. You should go talk to Mr Levy or Mr Hanssen about it if you have any concerns. There’s some free advice for you, take it or leave it.”

She handed his phone back to him, and he stuffed it in his pocket, muttering a word of thanks before turning tail and racing from the room, almost getting his coat caught in the door in his hurry. He was back inside the lift down to reception before he dared to look at the messages Jac had seen.

_ you always have been a liar, Dom. you know we were in love, don’t forget how it felt. _

_ i think we need to talk properly. in person. i hate not being able to see you. i still love you, no matter what you think. _

Dom leant his head against the tacky surface of the lift’s wall. What was he supposed to do? Any normal person would just block the number and move on with their lives. 

Isaac wasn’t, and never had been, in love with him; Dom wasn’t even sure Isaac knew what love should feel like. But then, he hadn’t known, either, had he? That was how he’d been convinced for so long that he and Isaac were deeply, madly, passionately in love.

But it had felt so real. It had been arresting, isolating, unfair, out-of-control, and impossible to live with, but stepping away from it for long enough to work that out had taken more energy than he would have ever credited himself with. It would be easy, in a way, to just give in to Isaac’s new demands: to meet up with him, to let him smooth-talk and excuse his way out of what he’d done. Let Isaac fall back in with him. Pretend he really was going to be different, this time.

In another way, though, it was ridiculous to even give it a moment’s consideration. Zosia, Morven, and Jasmine would never stand to let it happen, not now they knew the truth. His mum knew, Sacha knew, Henrik Hanssen knew, Jac knew; hell, even Jez and Lofty knew. They would all find a way to raise their objections, one way or another.

But it was Dom’s choice to make, wasn’t it? He had been the only one who had been able to break it off the last time, even if it had taken his friends and teachers to show him how wrong his relationship with Isaac was. He was the only one who could put an end to it once and for all.

He drew in a lungful of stale air from the cramped confines of the lift, and pushed ‘Block this number’. A little pop-up asked him if he was sure.

The doors opened, and Dom pressed ‘OK’.

*

“I’ve had a weird day,” Jasmine announced to no one in particular. She was sprawled sideways across Morven’s bed on her back, her head hanging off the edge. Dom looked over from where he was failing miserably at helping Morven force her window open; it had been jammed shut all year, but today was the day she’d decided she needed fresh air.

“Weird how?” he asked.

“Well, Jac phoned me, for one.”

“Really?” Dom decided against mentioning his supervision with her that morning. “What did she say?”

“Stand back, I think I’ve got it!” Morven yelled at him. Dom leapt away as she heaved at the catch, and the window made a noise like a cat going through an industrial shredder as it opened a fraction of an inch. 

“Success!” Morven declared, standing back to survey her achievement with her hands on her hips and a pleased grin on her face. “Sorry, Jas, what were you saying?”

Jasmine rolled over onto her stomach. “Jac rang. She said we should meet up again, Wednesday after next, once she finishes her shift.”

“Oh!” Morven smiled at her hopefully. “That’s good, right?”

Jasmine screwed up her nose. “Yeah, but…”

“But what?” asked Dom.

“I don’t know why she’s taking an interest again all of a sudden. She’s barely said two words to me since Christmas, and now she wants us to get together like it’s normal?”

“Well, maybe she’s seen the error of her ways?” Morven suggested. Dom and Jasmine both let out disbelieving snorts.

“Even if she has, she’ll never admit it,” said Jasmine. She sighed. “The thing is, I don’t want her to bother with me now only to drop me again the minute we’ve met up. I can’t do that. I want it to be a proper relationship, or… well, maybe I don’t want it at all.”

“You knew it was never going to be easy,” said Morven gently, moving over to sit on the floor beside her bed, letting Jasmine’s hair tickle her nose as she tilted her face up to her. “She’s not the sort of person to let people in, is she? She’d rather be rude than let anyone know she feels things too.”

“I know,” said Jasmine. “But it doesn’t mean it hurts any less.”

“Did you tell her you wouldn’t go?” said Dom. 

“No. I said I would. I do want to see her, but I just – I want us to be sisters. Real sisters. Not strangers who meet for coffee once every three months.”

“This is a step towards being real sisters, though,” said Morven, rubbing comforting circles on Jasmine’s arm. “It probably isn’t going to go from nothing to everything you’ve ever wanted straight away, but it’s a start, isn’t it? And if you don’t go through with it, you’ll never even have a chance.”

Jasmine bit her lip, nodding reluctantly. “I guess you’re right.” She threw up her hands in exasperation. “Why does it have to be so freaking complicated, though?”

“Wouldn’t be Jac without a bit of mystery, would it?” said Dom. Morven rolled her eyes at him, still stroking Jasmine’s arm. Jasmine gave them both a tiny smile.

“Okay,” she said. “If it all goes tits up, though, I’m blaming you guys.”

“Deal,” said Morven and Dom in unison.

*

Calling in at the Starbucks in the alley running parallel to Christ’s for a post-lecture coffee, Dom was taken aback to see Robyn in the queue, pushing a bulky pink and grey pram. He considered turning right around and beating a hasty retreat, but she chose that moment to glance around to get a better look at the menu, and caught sight of him.

Her face lit up. “Dom, hey! How are you doing?”

Dom summoned up a feeble smile. “Hi Robyn. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“No, well, I was going to meet Lofty this afternoon, but one of his seminars is overrunning, so I’ve got some time to kill.”

The person in front of her shifted to the serving counter at the other end of the till, and Robyn manoeuvred forward to place her order – a plain Frappuccino and a slice of chocolate cake. As she paid, she turned back to Dom.

“Are you free for a bit?” she asked him. “It’d be nice to have a chat.”

Dom cast a thought to the pile of medical reports lying on his desk, just waiting for him to slog through them all. He nodded.

“Sure,” he said. She didn’t seem to be treating him weirdly – had Lofty even told her anything about their fight? 

“Great!” She smiled at him and moved to the counter at the end.

When they’d both picked up their drinks out, they made their way to a table near the back of the café. Robyn hauled a high chair over and lifted her daughter out of her pram.

“Dom, this is Charlotte,” said Robyn. “Say hi to Dom, Charlotte!”

Charlotte pressed her face into her mum’s shoulder, and shook her head. Dom laughed.

“Hi, Charlotte,” he said, waving at her as Robyn placed her in the high chair. She scrutinised him with great rigour for a few seconds, then nodded and reached out for the cake Robyn had bought.

“Me!” she said, clear as a bell. “Mummy! Me!” Dom smothered another chuckle. Robyn rolled her eyes to the heavens.

“Patience, child,” she said, and broke the cake into smaller pieces, handing one to Charlotte, who instantly began busying herself with smearing it all over her face. Robyn shot a look at Dom over her drink.

“So,” she said. “I heard you and Lofty had a bit of a falling out.”

Dom stiffened. “I don’t –”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not going to have a go at you. I know he can be a bit weird with his emotions sometimes.”

“I read him completely wrong,” said Dom, shoulders sagging. “First, I thought he was straight, then I realised he wasn’t, then I just figured, well, I don’t even know what. He’s been so nice, but I was being ridiculous. I should never have assumed anything. I just can’t tell what he’s thinking.”

“Have you tried asking him, at all?” Robyn raised an eyebrow at him. Dom shrugged.

“I haven’t seen him since – I take it he told you about the argument?”

Robyn shook her head. “He did, but only after I heard it from Dylan. Like I say, he can be a bit out of touch with his own feelings.”

“Lofty?” Dom frowned at her, puzzled. “But he’s so good at – he always knows the right things to say. He does Psychology, for God’s sake!”

“Yeah, other people he has covered,” said Robyn. “But himself? Not a chance.”

Dom pursed his lips, letting the idea sink in. Lofty didn’t know how to deal with his feelings?  _ Snap _ , Dom thought, gloomily. Where did that leave them?

“What does that even mean, though? What am I supposed to do?”

Robyn sighed, and leant over to dust crumbs off Charlotte’s dinosaur t-shirt. “It means,” she said, “that one of you needs to suck it up and start a conversation. Like adults.”

“I don’t even know what to say,” Dom confessed. “He clearly isn’t ever going to be interested in me. I didn’t even really know I was interested in him –” He broke off, feeling his face beginning to burn. “I mean. It’s not – not really, but. I don’t know. He probably won’t even want to be friends with me now. I’ve made everything weird.”

Robyn tapped at the table, considering him thoughtfully. “I’m hardly an expert on this stuff,” she said. “But I don’t think you’ll achieve anything if you avoid him forever. I’ve known Lofty for way too long, and he’s always really hated fighting with anyone. He’s probably feeling pretty embarrassed and upset that he made you feel bad.”

“That does sound quite a lot like Lofty,” said Dom. Robyn gave him a conspiratorial smile.

“So, there’s my two-penny’s worth,” she said. “Hopefully it’ll do you some good.”

“Thanks,” said Dom. He filed her words away, telling himself he didn’t have to decide what to do right that moment. He’d managed without seeing Lofty for this long; they’d both survive another day. 

“You’re more than welcome,” said Robyn, dabbing at Charlotte’s face with a napkin.

“So,” he said, casting around for a change of subject – he wasn’t going to be great company if he just sat there moping about his tiff with her best friend. Finally, he hit on something. “A little bird told me you’ve found someone yourself?”

Even if it  _ did  _ happen to be information he’d found out from her aforementioned best friend, it was at least relevant to her life. Robyn nodded, clasping her hands around her Frappuccino.

“Yeah,” she said, “David. He’s really lovely, Charlotte adores him.”

“Dav-ie,” said Charlotte. Robyn beamed at her.

“Yes, sweetheart, we’re seeing him later tonight,” she said.

“Aw,” Dom cooed. “Is he a student, too?”

“He’s actually a fully qualified nurse,” she said. “He works in the ED at Addenbrookes. I actually met him last term, but we were both too nervous to pluck up the courage to start anything.”

“Who made the first move?” Dom asked. Robyn huffed a laugh.

“Dylan,” she said. Dom blinked.

“Sorry?”

“Dylan got forced into helping organise a charity speed-dating event,” she said. “I know, right? So he decided to drag me along for moral support. I met David, and something clicked for us both.”

“And Dylan?” Dom had no idea how to even begin picturing such a bizarre, uptight man in a setting where he was forced to speak to multiple people with a view to making some form of romantic connection. “How did he do?”

“Dylan got hit on by seven different women and three men,” said Robyn. “All incredibly attractive, successful, well-adjusted people. And he responded by telling every single one of them that he was ‘regrettably wed to my studies on current and historical agricultural practices in the Caucasus’.”

Dom cackled at her uncanny impression of Dylan’s plummy voice.

“Wow,” he said. “He’s full of surprises.”

“He’s not the only one,” said Robyn, with a mysterious glint in her eye. “Make sure you have that word with Lofty, hm?”

*

The inevitable finally happened the next morning – Dom went into the cramped little kitchen to grab some toast, and was almost smacked in the face by the door when Lofty pushed it open.

“Oh my God, sorry!” Lofty said, before his brain caught up with his mouth, and he realised that he was speaking to Dom. His face fell even further as they locked eyes, and he made to back up out of the kitchen straight away.

“No, Lofty, wait!” Dom said. Lofty halted with his foot halfway back over the threshold, leaving the door swinging shut. Dom yanked it back open. “Please, can we – can we talk?”

Lofty regarded him with the look of a wounded seal pup. He took a cautious step into the tiny room, and Dom let the door close behind him.

“I don’t –”

“Can I just say something?” Dom said, scared that if he didn’t just come out with it now, before Lofty could tell him anything, then he never would. Lofty nodded, falling silent with his arms crossed over his chest like a protective shield. Dom took a deep breath, and plunged in.

“I’m really sorry,” he said. “I should never have tried to kiss you. It was a mistake.”

Lofty’s expression flickered, almost hurt. Dom slapped his forehead, angry at himself for that particular choice of words. 

“No! No, that’s not exactly what I meant. Listen. Lofty, I kissed you because – well, I was drunk, but I wanted to kiss you. And yes, maybe you’re right, and part of the reason why is because you are nothing at all like Isaac. But I also kissed you because you’re – you’re you. You’re kind, you’re thoughtful, you’re funny, you listen, and you’re just so – well, it’s just that those are pretty attractive qualities.”

Lofty laughed in disbelief. “Yeah, sure,” he said.

“I mean it,” said Dom. “But I know I read the signals wrong, and I get why you don’t – why you wouldn’t feel the same. That’s okay. And I’m sorry for overreacting about what I heard on the stairs the other day. I was – I thought – it sounded like you just saw me as a victim, like I can’t think for myself anymore.”

Lofty’s forehead furrowed in dismay. “I’m really – I’m so sorry, Dom. I really didn’t mean that. I didn’t – I don’t see you like that. I just –”

Dom took pity on his floundering attempts at an explanation. “It’s okay,” he said. “I didn’t exactly cover myself in glory, did I?”

“You had every right to be angry at me for talking about you behind your back,” said Lofty.

“Like you said, I did the same thing with Zosia, you just didn’t overhear it. It happened, we were both idiots, but it doesn’t matter anymore,” said Dom. “It really doesn’t. Can we just wipe the slate clean and forget any of this ever happened? Please?”

Lofty held out his hand, hope shimmering behind his eyes. “Friends?”

Dom smiled, and tried to ignore the little thrill of electricity that went through him as they clasped hands.

“Friends,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's left kudos and comments, I appreciate everything everyone has to say about this fic! (And yes, when I said 'slow burn', I reeeeeeeally meant it)!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as things start to get back to normal between Dom and Lofty, Zosia's dad puts in a predictably controversial appearance, and things take a dramatic turn at the local pub...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in this chapter for homophobia, racism/Neo-Nazis, violence, injury, Dom's flippant thoughts about Isaac's abuse, and referenced abuse generally.

Being friends with Lofty was easy enough, if Dom didn’t spend too long thinking about it. They took to meeting in the kitchen every morning to complain about their workload for the day as they ate breakfast: toast, an apple, and black coffee for Dom, and Rice Krispies with a ridiculous amount of sugar for Lofty.

“I don’t know how you have any teeth left in your head,” said Dom, one morning. Lofty grinned at him, revealing his perfectly unrotten white teeth.

“Good genes,” he said. “And a fair bit of flossing.”

They usually found themselves back in the kitchen most evenings – Lofty to make himself a cup of tea with two sugars, Dom to pretend he was in dire need of a glass of water.

Dom invited Lofty to hang out with him and Zosia at lunch one day, as he discovered they were all finished with their scheduled classes at the same time that afternoon. Zosia raised her eyebrows as they both slid into seats opposite her in the café, after ordering their food at the counter. 

“Hello, boys,” she said. 

“Uh, Zosia, this is Lofty,” said Dom. “Lofty, meet Zosia.”

“Hi,” said Lofty. “It’s lovely to finally meet you.”

“Right back at you,” said Zosia, the corner of her mouth turning up in a sly smirk as she greeted him. “I’ve heard so much about you.” 

Lofty gave Dom a sideways glance but, to Dom’s eternal relief, didn’t comment. Zosia made pleasant small talk with Lofty about their respective course modules and supervisors until their food arrived.

“Oh, Dom, I need your help this coming week, by the way,” she said, as she tucked into her veggie burger.

“What with?” said Dom, narrowing his eyes. “If it has anything to do with your sex life, your father, or  _ his _ sex life with his new girlfriend, I’m not going near it with a ten-foot bargepole.”

“How did you find out about the new girlfriend?” Zosia asked.

“I have a Google alert set up on his name,” said Dom.

“What?” Zosia’s mouth dropped open. “Dominic!”

“It’s just in case he does anything scandalous and it gets in the press before you find out.” He paused to let her absorb that crucial piece of information. “Also, it’s pretty hilarious to see how many of his pap shots get on the Daily Mail website.”

“Is your dad some kind of big deal, then?” asked Lofty.

Zosia shrugged at the same moment Dom cackled. She reached across the table to give him a pretend whack on the arm. “He likes to think he is,” she said. 

“He’s become something of a socialite in recent years,” said Dom. “Hasn’t he?”

Zosia pointedly shifted her attention to Lofty. “He’s the CFO at the Harley Street Clinic,” she said. “But he lives in Belgravia and thinks he’s part of the oligarchy because he gets invited to some of their parties and finds lots of rich women who want to sleep with him, for some ungodly reason.”

“Wow,” said Lofty. “That’s… that’s really something.”

“Don’t be too impressed,” said Dom. “He’s also a grade-A twa –”

“Okay!” said Zosia loudly. “Anyway, it’s not actually anything to do with his new girlfriend. You know I have my ground rules when it comes to new girlfriends. I don’t acknowledge they exist for at least three months.”

“That one was instituted after he had a fling with Jac Naylor in our first year,” said Dom in a stage whisper. He watched Lofty visibly struggle to keep his jaw from falling open at this revelation, and was so amused that he completely missed the gherkin Zosia picked out of her burger and threw at his face.

“Thanks,” he said, wiping at his face and sticking his tongue out at her.

“You deserve it,” she said. “Are you ever going to let me get around to telling you what I’d like you to do for me?”

“You were the one who brought up the ground rules!” Dom protested. “And that really is a nugget that’s too good not to pass on!” 

“Right, sure, you’ve had your fun now,” said Zosia. “Anyway. My father wants me to meet one of his associates and a prospective employee of theirs, so he’s decided we all need to have dinner together on Tuesday. I asked if I could bring someone, and he said I could if I absolutely had to, as long as it wasn’t Ollie. I think he’s trying to set me up with this new guy he wants to employ.” She finally paused for breath. “But there’s no way I’m letting him and Ollie loose in a room with each other anyway, not after the debacle with the sparkler on that fucking cocktail in Nobu.”

“Mm,” said Dom. He remembered Ollie’s attempts to make having no eyebrows for six weeks look cool all too well. He also now had a nagging sense that he knew where this was going. 

“So,” Zosia said, shooting him a pleading look, even batting her eyelashes for good measure. “I was thinking: who better to come along with me and piss him off, without risk of anyone getting physically injured by trying too hard to out-macho each other, than you?”

“Fuck no,” said Dom, throwing his hands up. “No, no, no, no, no. Absolutely not. No way. Not in a million years.”

“Dom! Who else am I supposed to go with?”

“Go on your own!”

Zosia fixed him with a flat stare. Dom sighed.

“Fine,” he said. “But I want assurances that you’ll give me eternal credit for not hauling off and punching him in the face when he makes the obligatory snide comment about my sexuality. And he’d better be paying for me to suffer his company.”

“He is,” said Zosia. “He wants us to go to the Chinese place in The Dorchester.”

Lofty let out a low whistle. “No expenses spared,” he commented.

“He knows no one would want to hang out with him if he just took them to a Pizza Hut,” said Dom.

“I think I’d prefer Pizza Hut, to be honest,” said Zosia, and leaned back in her chair, groaning theatrically. “Why does he have to be _ my _ father?”

“Bad luck,” said Dom. “Not even I’d swap with you.”

At quarter to two, Zosia had to leave for a meeting with the pregnant woman she was shadowing as part of her coursework. She gave Dom a kiss on the forehead and winked at Lofty. As she strode off in the direction of the maternity wards, Lofty turned to Dom, looking a mixture of flustered, overwhelmed, and utterly bamboozled.

“Huh,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Dom. “She does tend to have that effect on people.”

They got the bus back to the centre of town together. Dom discovered that Lofty had decided against cycling the twenty minutes to the hospital, since the last time he’d tried, back in his first year and idealistic to a fault about eliminating his carbon footprint, he’d been hit by a double-decker bus and dislocated his shoulder.

“How are you still alive?” Dom asked, aghast. Lofty gave him a rueful smile.

“You’re not even close to being the first person who’s asked me that,” he said. “To be fair, it was only going at ten miles an hour.”

“One of the very few benefits of living in a city that has more bikes than cars,” Dom pointed out. “No one’s doing over ten miles an hour.”

“Oh, and I also got knocked down by a bike halfway through my second year,” said Lofty, with a surprising degree of nonchalance. “On Orgasm Bridge.”

“Not a particularly pleasurable experience, though, I’m betting,” said Dom. Lofty’s lips quirked.

“No,” he said. “Sprained my wrist and broke a couple of ribs.”

“Huh,” said Dom. He stopped himself on the verge of saying ‘snap’, given that he’d suffered that exact same combination of injuries at the beginning of the previous term; most people didn’t tend to appreciate jokes that reminded them of what Isaac had done to him. “Did you at least get a cast out of the experience?” he asked instead.

“I did,” Lofty confirmed. “Robyn wrote incredibly rude things all over it.”

“What else are friends for?”

“What indeed?” They were sitting close enough that when Lofty shifted slightly in his seat, their shoulders brushed. Dom pressed his lips together and tried not to analyse the faint flutter in his stomach at the unintentional touch.

He’d get over it.

*

“Fuck’s sake!” Zosia yanked at the zip on the back of her dress, arm bent at an almost unnatural angle as she reached behind her head. Dom stopped midway through doing his tie up and rushed forward to help her.

“Don’t, you’ll break it,” he said, batting her fingers away. She let it go long enough for him to try unsticking it himself, while she launched herself at the mirror to check her hair. Dom lurched after her, and the zip came loose. He pulled it up properly and stepped back to finish his tie. They exchanged glances in the mirror. 

“We’re going to have to spend half an hour on the Tube in this get-up,” Zosia said.

“Don’t remind me,” said Dom. He glanced at the clock: they were due to meet Zosia’s dad in London at half-seven, and it was already quarter to five. “We should head for the station soon,” he said. “Unless you want to skip the whole thing, of course. An idea that I, for one, would fully support, by the way.”

“I wish,” said Zosia. She studied her reflection in the mirror one last time, taking in the slinky black dress with the slits exposing flashes of her midriff just above her hips, her winged eyeliner, and loose, wavy hair. “I’ll have to do,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

Dom scoffed. “You’ll be the most gorgeous woman The Dorchester’s ever seen. If I swung the other way…”

Zosia did her best to convey an eyeroll without smudging her mascara. 

“Oh, don’t forget to shut the window before we go,” she said to him, slipping her heels on. Dom walked over to the window, and paused with his hand on the frame as he caught sight of the scene unfolding outside. He beckoned to Zosia, and she ambled over, curious.

Down in the car park, Mickey Ellisson was storming away from a shorter man with dark hair in a full Adidas tracksuit. The man was jogging to keep up with him, trying to grab hold of Mickey’s arm. Finally, just short of the window Dom and Zosia were watching from, Mickey spun round and slapped the other man’s hand away.

“Scott, how many times? I’m not a kid anymore, leave me the fuck alone!”

“Not until you tell me who this bloke is that you’re hanging out with all the time,” said Scott. Mickey took a faltering step backwards.

“What – I don’t – I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“Oh, don’t give me that shit! What’s his name, Jesse? I know you’ve been staying at his. What I want to know is, why?”

“I don’t know, maybe because I’d rather live anywhere but back home?”

“What’s been wrong with you lately, bro?” Scott took a few steps forward, until he was right in Mickey’s face, squaring his shoulders aggressively.

Dom’s eyes widened, and he turned as Zosia tapped his arm to catch his attention. 

“Shit,” she whispered. “Should we do something?”

“Like what?” asked Dom, pitching his voice low. “I don’t fancy getting in the middle of a fight with that lot, do you?”

“Call the Porters?” she said. Dom shrugged uneasily. Was it worth potentially getting Jez in trouble for letting Mickey pretty much live in his room these past few weeks? Would they get flak if the college figured out Jez was in a relationship with a guy who was technically a member of staff? Would Mickey be outed to his brother?

“Let’s just go,” he said. “Maybe us walking past will be enough to shut that Scott up.”

They bolted down the stairs as quickly as they could without tripping or seeming too winded by the trip. When they got out into the car park, the argument between Mickey and his brother was still in full swing. Scott had his hands on Mickey’s shoulders, fingers digging in painfully. 

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll come back home with your tail between your legs and tell Mum and Dad you’re sorry for being such a selfish twat,” he was saying. Mickey twisted out of his brother’s grip.

“Fuck off,” he said. “I mean it, Scott. Leave it.” He spotted Dom and Zosia out of the corner of his eye as they passed, walking as slowly as they could without it looking too conspicuous. Then, he dropped his head and stalked away from his brother, who swore angrily and kicked out at the wall.

Mickey glanced behind him and slowed his stride to fall into step with Dom and Zosia when he saw that Scott was no longer following him.

“Hey,” he said. “Hope we didn’t disturb you with all that.”

“It’s fine,” said Dom. “Everything okay?”

Mickey shrugged. “Just my idiot brother sticking his nose in where it’s not wanted,” he said. “It’ll blow over.”

“Does Jez know?”

“Most of it,” said Mickey. “I was just going to meet him now.”

“Be careful,” said Dom, without thinking. Mickey inhaled sharply through his nose. 

“He’s my brother, whatever else he is,” he said. “He just thinks he’s looking out for me.”

They parted ways as Mickey turned into Jez’s building, and headed for the bus to the train station. As they found a set of table seats on the train to King’s Cross, Zosia shook her head.

“Loving your family can really blind you to their faults, can’t it?”

“Good job ours make themselves so hard to love, then,” Dom joked, then gave it some consideration. “But, seriously, I think Mickey might be more frightened of his brother than he lets on.”

Zosia hummed. “Maybe.”

Fifty minutes later, they were racing across King’s Cross station to get the Tube down to Green Park. Zosia clutched her heels in her hands, perilously choosing to run in bare feet across the platform. They got on the train just before the doors closed, and Zosia balanced against one of the railings to put her shoes back on.

“Why did you even wear heels? You’re not seriously after this guy your dad’s trying to push on you?” Dom teased. Zosia looked up disdainfully from her doubled-over position, still buckling the straps on her shoes back up.

“Not bloody likely,” she said. “I just want to be on a level with Dad, height-wise. He hates that.”

Dom shot her an impressed smirk as she straightened up, now a good few inches taller than him.

By the time they’d traipsed from Green Park to The Dorchester, it was just gone half-seven. Zosia’s father was walking towards them through the carefully manicured flower gardens in a maroon, velvet suit, scrolling through his phone. He looked up with a bored expression on his face.

“Darling, how good to see you,” he said, and pulled Zosia in for a brief hug before holding her at arm’s length to get a better view of her appearance. “You’re looking rather tall there tonight, aren’t you?”

Zosia ignored the comment. “I brought Dom, Dad. You remember him.”

“Ah, of course,” said Guy, giving Dom the sort of appraisal most people reserved for a particularly irritating bluebottle buzzing around their living room, just before they brought out the electric fly-swatter. “A pleasure to see you again, Dominic. Now, we should go in and order drinks; Tristan and Isaac are both running late, but they shouldn’t be more than ten or fifteen minutes.”

Dom’s jaw clenched, and he berated himself for the stupid response. Not every guy out there named Isaac was going to be the Isaac _ he _ knew. Zosia noticed his sudden tension, and squeezed his hand as Guy turned to lead them past the doorman to the Chinese restaurant inside the hotel.

At the bar, Guy handed them both drinks menus. “What are you having tonight, Dominic? Something fruity?”

It took Dom a good few seconds to evaluate exactly how much of a homophobic flavour Guy had been intending to inject into that question. He eventually decided to pick his battles along with his alcohol. “A Marks in Black, if you don’t mind,” he said, spotting the black Sambuca and lime cocktail. He felt like he’d need a stiff drink or two to get him through the next few hours.

Zosia ordered a drink full of gin and Drambuie, and downed it in three gulps as her father quizzed her about her studies.

“And are you still with Oliver, darling?” he asked.

“When I spoke to you a week ago I was, Dad, so yeah,” she said. “Still together.”

“Well, these things change so quickly when you’re young,” Guy said mildly, sipping his bourbon. “You just never can tell what’s around the corner. And you, Dominic? Have you found yourself a nice chap to while away the hours with?”

“Not yet,” said Dom through gritted teeth.

“Ah, don’t despair! You should try – what’s that app all the young gay men use now? Grind-It?”

“I think you mean Grindr, Dad,” Zosia muttered.

“Oh, whatever it’s called, I read an article about it in the  _ Sunday Times _ lifestyle section the other week. Apparently, there was a fellow using it to lure unsuspecting young men to their deaths not long back. There were a few horror stories the writer of the article had heard from people who’d been on the site. Scary stuff, hm?”

Dom chewed at the inside of his cheek, resisting the temptation to ask why, if Guy was certain Grindr was full of criminals hellbent on committing murder, he was recommending that Dom should try it out. Instead, he concentrated on finishing his drink. If he was going to be spending the night in Guy Self’s company, he was damn well going to make sure he got due payment in the form of as much free alcohol as he could physically consume.

Guy glanced over their shoulders and raised a hand.

“Ah, Tristan, over here!” he said, and Zosia and Dom turned to find a man about Guy’s age, with grey hair and the sly look of a fox about his twitchy nose, heading towards them. He clapped Guy on the back, before shaking hands with Dom perfunctorily, and grasping Zosia tightly around the waist to give her a kiss on each cheek. 

Zosia shot Dom a look of abject horror behind his back, which he returned. There was something about the guy that made him feel like ants were crawling all over his skin, and they’d barely even touched. He tried not to make his disgust too obvious.

“Tristan, you’ve met Zosia once before, I know,” said Guy. Tristan drew back and gave Zosia an obvious once-over. Dom felt a shudder race down his spine. Zosia was rigid, angling her entire body away from the man.

“Oh yes,” he said. “You’ve grown into quite the young lady since the last time I saw you.”

Zosia made a face that could charitably be described as a smile, Dom supposed. She was baring her teeth quite impressively, at any rate. Dom debated the merits of wrenching Zosia away from the man by force. Tristan had opened his mouth to say something else, but Guy cut across him, pointing to the other end of the room. 

“Oh, and here comes Isaac!” he said jovially. Dom saw the moment Zosia’s face clenched in disbelieving fury, and his stomach swooped to his knees. He grabbed the bar to steady himself, and turned to face the newcomer. What were the fucking chances? Because it  _ was _ Isaac: standing there with his usual insouciant ease in his sharp, tailored black suit, expensive watch on his wrist, hair slicked back behind his ears.

As he caught sight of Dom standing beside Zosia, his expression flickered with something that, in anyone else, Dom might have thought was a hint of anxiety. _ Worried we’ll tell your future employer what you’re really like? _ Dom wondered. He doubted Guy would very much care, either way, if he even believed them in the first place.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Zosia said in a low, dangerous voice. Dom took a shaky breath.

“It’s okay,” he tried to say, but the words didn’t come out as coolly as he’d hoped. The prospect of an evening socialising with Isaac like they’d never even met was stretching open ahead of him, and it made him feel sick just to picture it.

“Zosia!” said Guy, face darkening at his daughter’s outburst. “What did you just say?”

“I don’t know why I’m even surprised,” said Zosia, her gaze flitting between Isaac and Tristan before coming to rest on her father. “Like attracts like, doesn’t it?”

“Zosia, please,” said Guy. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Isaac had arrived at the bar: he was almost within an arm’s length of Dom. Close enough to reach out and – Dom looked down at the dregs of his drink, the ice already melting into water.

“I’m sorry, is there a problem?” Isaac asked into the silence, his voice perfectly level. Dom felt his skin burn. He thought that, out of every second he’d ever spent in Isaac’s company, he’d never hated him more than in that moment.

“No, you wouldn’t know, Dad, would you?” Zosia snapped, choosing to ignore Isaac entirely. “If you’d perhaps bothered to check with a higher-up at his college instead of buying whatever bullshit he’s fed you in your fifteen-minute Skype interview with him, you might have found out.”

“Darling, what on earth are you talking about? Found out what? I really have no clue what you mean – have you two met before?”

“Oh, we’ve met,” said Zosia. “And I was hoping we’d never have the  _ pleasure _ again.” Dom tugged her arm, shaking his head. Isaac arched an eyebrow.

“We have met, yes,” he said. “I didn’t realise you and Dominic were going to be here, Zosia.”

Fury at not even being addressed directly flared through Dom like pain from a rotten tooth. 

“I am right here,” he said, surprised at how flat and free of feeling his voice sounded. If his brain hadn’t formulated the words, he didn’t think he’d have known it was him saying them. “Isaac.”

Isaac blinked at him, and opened his mouth to reply, but Zosia was quicker, stepping in front of Dom and twisting her body to make a barrier between them.

“And if you know what’s good for you,  _ you _ won’t be here much longer,” she said to him.

“Zosia, I really won’t have you being so rude to someone I’ve invited as my guest!” Guy said. “Isaac, I really am very sorry about this. Can someone tell me what on earth is this about?”

“If he doesn’t leave of his own accord right now, we will,” said Zosia. Dom clung to her arm, feeling pathetic. Even now, he couldn’t speak up for himself properly.

“If that’s how you feel, Zosia, then…” said Guy, the implication heavy in his words.

Zosia tilted her head to look Dom in the eye. Her face was a silent question. Dom fixed his jaw and nodded. He gathered himself up to his full height, and tried not to let Isaac’s collected demeanour get him any more riled up than he already was. It didn’t matter. Isaac didn’t matter. Not anymore. He raised his eyes.

“Thank you for the drink,” he said to Guy. “But I think it’s time Zosia and I were off now.”

Zosia hooked her arm through the crook of his, and they left the restaurant without another word, not daring to look back and see how their departure was being received. By the time they got out into the crisp evening air, Dom was shivering. Zosia untangled their arms and threw hers around his shoulder. 

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I should have asked Dad exactly who he was inviting along.”

“You weren’t to know,” said Dom. “Honestly, it’s not anywhere near your fault. Besides, you had that creep Tristan to deal with, too.”

“C’mon,” she said, kicking a discarded beer can on the pavement; it skittered out into the road. “Fuck them all.”

“Hear, hear,” muttered Dom.

Back on the fast train to Cambridge from King’s Cross, Dom’s phone buzzed. He covered his face with his arms. 

“Can you check that?” he said. He knew he’d blocked the number, but there was a paranoid itch at the back of his head whispering that Isaac could be using a different phone by now.

“It’s from Lofty,” said Zosia, who had commandeered the seat facing her as a footrest for her bare, blistered feet. Dom blinked up at her.

“Oh?” He took the phone back and scanned the message. 

_ How’s dinner with Zosia’s dad going? Hope it’s not too terrible. x _

Dom began typing a reply, hoping that concentrating on the words would calm his suddenly racing heart. 

_ It was pretty terrible actually. One of the guys Zosia’s dad wanted her to meet was Isaac. We left.  _ He wondered whether he should add a kiss to the end of that. Lofty had put one, but maybe it was just a reflex for him. Would he read too much into it if Dom sent one back, given that Dom had been the one who’d admitted he was interested in him?

After a moment of deliberation, he added a single kiss and pressed send before he could change his mind, instantly cringing as the message winged its way to Lofty’s phone. Zosia leant her chin on his shoulder to read his text. 

“You sent him a kiss,” she said.

“He sent one first,” Dom shot back. “It’s only polite.”

“Hey, I’m not judging,” said Zosia. “Just saying.”

“Well, I’m not really in the mood,” he said.

“Sorry.” She fell silent, her head still resting on his shoulder. “We should go get drunk when we get back in.”

Dom snorted. “That sounds like such a great idea,” he said.

Two minutes later, Lofty’s name lit up on Dom’s screen again.  _ Shit, are you ok? x _

_ Yeah, I’m fine,  _ Dom wrote. It didn’t matter if he wasn’t; he would be, by the time they got back to Cambridge, far enough away from Isaac for Dom to pretend he was safe and no longer bothered.  _ Going to drown my sorrows w/ Zosia when we get back probably x _

_ You should come to Spoons if you feel like it, _ Lofty replied.  _ I’m here with Jas, Morven, Jez and a few others, we’re not going to be leaving anytime soon x _

Zosia quirked her head as she read the message over Dom’s shoulder. “Fancy it?”

Dom thought about it: the chance to lose himself in a small crowd of people whilst drinking copious amounts of alcohol? 

“Yeah, why not?” he said. “Are you up for it?”

“Yeah,” said Zosia. “I’ll text Ollie, see if he wants to meet us there.” She shifted back to dig her own mobile out of her bag, leaving Dom to send Lofty his reply.

_ Sure, sounds good. We’ll be there in about 40mins x _

Lofty’s next message told him that the group was on the far table with the high chairs near the bar itself. Dom slipped his phone into his pocket and leaned against Zosia’s side. She grumbled half-heartedly as he rearranged her hair so it wasn’t tickling his nose.

“Comfortable?” she asked.

“Very,” said Dom, and closed his eyes with a sigh.

*

They arrived outside The Regal – the biggest Wetherspoons in the whole of the United Kingdom, Dom thought he’d heard Jasmine or Morven say once – three-quarters of an hour later. It was a huge building with an arthouse cinema on top, and a bright blue neon sign signalling its own entrance. Two looming bouncers stood just outside the doors, checking people’s IDs as they entered.

Zosia and Dom got through, although the shorter, stockier man checking Zosia’s provisional licence squinted at her, comparing the vision standing before him in curls, a full face of make-up, and a pretty dress, against the bare-faced girl with a scraped-up topknot in the blurry photo on her card. Finally, he handed it back to her with a brusque nod. 

Inside, the pub was like an expanded version of almost any Wetherspoons anywhere in the country; terrible, brown swirly patterns on the carpet, a cluster of old men who’d been there since nine in the morning, downing pint after pint at the bar, and the odd family trying to have a late evening meal in the back.

It wasn’t hard to spot their own crowd, spread out across a twelve-seater table littered with empty cocktail glasses. Jez caught sight of Dom and waved him over.

“Hey, you two are dolled up,” he said, casting an appreciative eye over Dom and Zosia. “ _ Not _ that I’m complaining, you understand.”

Beside him, Mickey gave a pointed little cough. Jez’s hands flew up in surrender.

“You know I’ve only got eyes for you, babe,” he said. Mickey snorted, and allowed Jez to press a kiss to the corner of his lips, pretending to be annoyed even as his amusement shone through.

Dom and Zosia moved on, greeting Jasmine and Morven with raised eyebrows and a whispered ‘tell you later’. Jasmine looked pale and blotchy, as if she’d been crying, but she was smiling as she waved back to them, so Dom let it be.

Lofty was sitting near the end of the table, chatting to Ollie. As Zosia swung round to give Ollie a kiss and whisper something in his ear, Lofty gave Dom a questioning smile.

“Hey,” said Dom. “So that wasn’t the world’s greatest success.”

Ollie interrupted to ask Dom what he wanted to drink. When he’d headed off to order from the bar, Lofty asked:

“You’re both okay, though?”

“Yeah,” said Dom. His heart was no longer trying to beat its way up out of his throat, and his hands weren’t shaking, so he figured it was close enough to the truth. “Although I did think at one point Isaac might be leaving in an ambulance, the way Zosia was talking.”

Zosia shook her head, leaning in towards Lofty to mutter conspiratorially: “He was lucky he didn’t leave in a coffin.”

Dom laughed. “If only we’d been at Pizza Hut, eh?”

“Anything goes there,” Lofty agreed.

They fell into chatter that was easy enough, once Ollie had returned with the drinks, though Dom thought sometimes that he could feel Lofty’s eyes lingering on him across the table. Did he think Dom was about to fall apart: that he couldn’t cope with what had happened? 

Realising that he was holding his glass too tightly, Dom quickly placed it back on the table, trying to focus on what Damon was saying to him about the Procol Harum tribute band he’d been to see at the Corn Exchange last Friday.

“I’ve never really been into rock music,” said Dom when the other boy paused for breath. Damon blinked back at him.

“What, not even, like, Zeppelin or – or ACDC? What about the Eagles?”

“Especially not Zeppelin or ACDC,” Dom confirmed. “I have a reputation to maintain, thank you. Oh, although I do quite enjoy blasting ‘Hotel California’ during the last few days leading up to exams. Kind of exemplifies how I feel about studying at this place:  _ you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave _ , and all that.”

Damon looked at him askance. “Wow,” he said. “Is that what being a third year’s like?”

“You just wait,” said Dom.

Having left the first-year suitably spooked, he turned back towards Zosia, Ollie, and Lofty’s end of the table. At that moment, Lofty seemed to drop something, and dived down beneath the table to retrieve it. Dom raised an eyebrow, considering. 

As Lofty resurfaced, red-faced, with his dropped beermat, Dom caught his eye and gave him a smile. Was he imagining that Lofty’s face turned an even brighter shade of scarlet as he processed that Dom had been watching him more closely than he’d perhaps hoped? 

He let his eyes slide away, just as a blaring voice at the door to the pub snagged his attention. A group of half a dozen men in their mid-twenties, all with cropped hair and tattoos on their arms and necks, were heading straight for their table.

“Oh, no,” he heard himself say. There, at the front of the gang, was Scott Ellisson. 

“Oi!” Scott bellowed, as Mickey jumped up, scrambling to put space between him and Jez. But Dom thought it was already too late; they’d been sitting too close, leaning into each other, touching too much. They weren’t going to sell the ‘just good friends’ thing now.

“Scott, what are you doing here? I told you to leave it.” Mickey’s voice was flat and hard-edged, trying to brave it out. The whole table had gone silent, trying to work out what to do about the drama unfolding in front of their eyes.

“The better question, little brother, is what are you doing here?” Scott bit out, casting a filthy look on Jez. “With that.”

Mickey flinched. “He’s a mate,” he said. Jez was tense, his shoulders set in a rigid line, but he said nothing.

“A mate,” said Scott. “A very good mate, in fact. Took you in when you abandoned our family. Even good enough share his bed with you, am I right?”

“Scott!” The pitch of Mickey’s voice was high and frantic; he was scanning the angry faces of his brother’s skinhead mates. They were lined up behind Scott with their arms folded, looking more than ready for a fight.

“Tell me I’m not right,” said Scott. His voice was almost pleading behind the bravado, as if he was desperate not to believe it, to be proved wrong at the last moment. He moved closer to Mickey, who shifted so he was blocking Jez from view. Scott leaned in, spit flying from his mouth in his growing desperation at Mickey’s silence. “Tell me!”

Mickey shook his head. Scott’s face twisted into a grotesque mask of fury. 

“Christ. I always fucking knew. I always knew you were different from the rest of us!” 

Mickey bowed his head, then lifted his chin and stared into his brother’s mottled face. “I love him. I don’t care what you think.” Behind him, Jez gave a little start, barely perceptible.

“I could have made exceptions, you know,” said Scott, not offered any indication that he’d heard Mickey’s confession. “I could have turned a blind eye to it, if only you’d keep your mouth shut. But not with him. Not with  _ that _ .” Scott’s voice cracked with disgust, and his hands fell to his sides. 

“Stop, please!” Dom craned his neck, panic flooding through him as Jasmine spoke up. What was she doing? He tried to stand, to get to her, but Lofty grabbed his arm. “Stop,” Jasmine was saying. “He’s your brother, doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“What the fuck do you know about it?” Scott snarled. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

“You’ll have to go through me to get to him,” said Mickey, trying to wrest Scott’s attention away from Jasmine. “I won’t let you hurt him.”

“If that’s what it takes,” said Scott, almost to himself, reaching into his pocket.

“No!” Jasmine’s voice rang out.

The next few seconds happened so quickly that Dom couldn’t make sense of what was going on until it was over. Scott rushed forward, holding something in his hand, and shoved Mickey to the side to get at Jez, who stood up so fast his chair fell over, his arms coming up over his chest in a defensive motion. 

But Jasmine was there first, throwing herself out of her seat and across the space between Scott and Jez. Scott smacked into her, hard. There was a second, when Scott backed up, that Dom thought it was okay, that Jasmine was okay, and had just about managed to take the wind out of Scott’s sails by getting involved. That it was all over and done with.

Then, Morven let out a scream that made every cell in his body go cold. Jasmine was clutching her left side, crumpling to the ground, the bouncers at the door were racing over, and Scott and his crew had scattered, trying to make a break for it out of the back doors to the smoking area. The patrons nearby were on their feet, shouting. Two of the men in Scott’s group were tackled to the ground as they sprinted across the pub floor, and a table was knocked over in the scuffle. Bar staff were abandoning their posts, rushing over to see what the commotion was about.

Mickey made a dart forward to chase off after his brother, but Jez hauled him back, grabbing him around the waist to restrain him.

“Stop it, he’s got a knife!” he yelled. “I can’t lose you. I can’t.”

_ A knife. _ Dom was on his feet, with Lofty and Zosia at his heels. He rounded the table; Morven was sitting on the floor with Jasmine’s head in her lap, while Cameron Dunn had pushed Jasmine’s shirt up around her armpits, and was pressing down on the wound with Damon’s t-shirt. Damon stood to the side, shivering in a thin vest, staring down at Jasmine in disbelief.

“Has someone called an ambulance?” Zosia said behind him. One of the bar staff, still on the phone, nodded. Dom dropped to his knees beside Jasmine, whose eyes were fluttering open and shut.

“Morv – Jac, get Jac, please,” she said.

“Okay, I’ll call her, we’ll get her, she’ll come,” Morven said, stroking her hair. “Dom, get her mobile.”

Dom scrabbled around underneath the table for Jasmine’s bag, a little cream over-the-shoulder thing that was now flecked with blood. He found Jac’s number on her phone, and dialled.

Jac answered on the fifth ring. “Jasmine, I’m busy.”

“It’s not Jasmine,” said Dom. “It’s Dom – Dominic Copeland.”

“What’s happened?” Jac barked.

“She – Jasmine, she’s been – I think she’s been stabbed,” he said.

Jac’s end of the phone went quiet. 

“Jac?”

He heard a noise a bit like a choked-off gasp. “Where’s the ambulance? Tell me you’ve called an ambulance,” she said.

“Yeah, I – there’s one on the way,” he said. “I don’t know how long, but –”

“I’ll be in A&E,” said Jac. “How did this happen?”

“I – there was a – a fight, she got in the middle of it – she was trying to stop someone from getting hurt,” said Dom, casting his eyes back to Morven, who was babbling terrified questions at Jasmine in an attempt to keep her responsive.

Jac cursed. “Stupid girl,” she said. “Stupid, stupid girl.” Before Dom could reply, she hung up. Morven glanced around at him.

“She’s going to be at the ED,” said Dom. Morven’s eyes were shining with unshed tears.

“It’s the least she can do,” she said bitterly. “She cancelled on Jas, you know that? Tomorrow, they were meant to be meeting up, you remember? And she called it off, last minute. Like always.”

That must have been why Jasmine looked so sad when he’d first laid eyes on her that evening, Dom thought. He sighed. 

“No,” Jasmine muttered. “Morv, no, don’t say that, she didn’t mean…”

“Jasmine, can you hear me?” he said. Her eyelids were drooping, her teeth gritted with pain, but she murmured something incomprehensible back to him. “Jas, listen to me. Jac’s on her way, okay? Jac’s coming.”

“Jac –” Jasmine said, her eyes brimming over with tears that rolled down her cheeks and into her mouth. Morven’s hands shook as she brushed them away.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “You’ll be okay.”

“It hurts,” Jasmine murmured, her voice small and hoarse.

Dom looked at Cameron, still putting pressure on the stab wound. Damon’s t-shirt, once a pale blue, now had a small patch in the centre that was slowly turning red. Cameron hitched his shoulders in response to Dom’s unasked question, a helpless gesture. 

“Where’s that ambulance?” Jez was yelling to one of the bartenders. “How long?” He was still holding Mickey, squeezing him like he would never let go again.

Dom looked down at Jasmine, slipping in and out of awareness and groaning in pain, and prayed to every god he’d never believed in that the paramedics would arrive in time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! Did I say last chapter that things might be getting less miserable? ...I may have been a bit economical with the truth. Also, hope my mash-up of the Holby/Casualty stabbings worked out, although I'm afraid you'll have to wait till next time to discover the outcome...
> 
> Just want to put out the disclaimer that I've only ever had pleasant-to-mediocre experiences at that particular Wetherspoons, and as far as I know, no one's ever been stabbed there and most of its clientele are the aforementioned older men who like to drink beer at 9am and the odd family (including mine, because my dad's a 'Spoons fiend) trying to get the last cheap pub meal in Cambridge. Definitely visit it for a drink if you're ever in town. Stay away from the Dorchester, though, [I here it's a bit of a dump...](https://www.dorchestercollection.com/en/london/the-dorchester/)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang deal with the fall-out from Jasmine's stabbing, Lofty and Dom have a moment, and Jac enlists Dom's help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter's a little later than usual; I've been home from uni for the weekend, so I've been quite busy. Hope you enjoy! Warnings for minor character death, injury, and general dealings with the trauma/shock in the aftermath of Jasmine's stabbing. Also for the vaguest, least graphic or exciting sexual content imaginable.

The twelve minutes it took for the ambulance to arrive were the longest of Dom’s life. By the time they crashed the stretcher through the doors and walked calmly to Jasmine’s aid, she was pale and clammy, eyes glazed over as she muttered Morven and Jac’s names in turn. 

The paramedics were careful and calm, and Dom nearly bit through his cheek as he watched their slow progress to get her out towards the ambulance. He knew, of course, why it was important for them to stay level-headed in a crisis, but he wished they had more urgency to their actions regardless. It was unthinkable to him that anyone could be unaffected by the sight of Jasmine gasping and bleeding on the crumb-strewn floor of a dingy old pub. 

The blue lights of the ambulance were flashing in the street outside, and there was already a small crowd gathering on the front step to rubberneck as Jasmine was carried out. Morven went in the ambulance with Jasmine; the rest of them waited in numb, hushed suspension until the police arrived, a few minutes later, to arrest the two men being held down by various bystanders, and take statements from the group.

Dom went through the motions, telling the policewoman taking fastidious notes what he’d seen and heard. When he was done, he couldn’t remember a word he’d said to her. She patted his arm and gave him a sympathetic smile. 

“We’ll get you all back to your college in a minute,” she said. “We might need you to give us a more detailed statement at a later date, but that’s all for now.” Dom nodded, not really hearing her. He looked around to see Mickey slumped on a bar stool, his head resting against Jez’s chest. Zosia was shivering in her thin, strapless dress. Ollie, fresh from his own talk with the police, snatched up his jacket and draped it around her shoulders.

Lofty was just behind them, his face a sickly, washed-out shade of green. When he saw Dom watching him, however, he seemed to shake himself out of it, and walked over. 

“Are you done with the police?” he asked. His voice was hoarse.

Dom shrugged. “For now, I think.” He pressed a hand to his forehead, trying to ease the ache that was spreading across his temples.

The police were already cordoning off the area around their table, evacuating customers as quickly as possible. Dom and his group were herded the five minutes’ walk down the road to Christ’s, where Sacha was waiting outside the Porter’s Lodge with the grave, looming figure of Henrik Hanssen, the Senior Tutor; Dom supposed the police must have called them from the pub to alert them to what had happened.

While Hanssen led the police officers to his office, Sacha corralled the rest of them into his little room in Second Court. The eight of them perched on chairs and piles of books, as Sacha busied himself making hot drinks for them all.

“Guys, I don’t – I really don’t know what to say,” he said, once they were all holding chipped mugs of weak, sugary tea. “I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for you all to witness that.” His eyes lingered on Mickey for a moment. Dom wondered if he even recognised the guy, or if he knew it was his brother who’d hurt Jasmine; Mickey certainly didn’t know Sacha.

“What happens now?” asked Damon, who was wearing an ill-fitting plain white shirt that he must have been given by someone behind the bar at Wetherspoons. He had only managed to do up four of the buttons, and one of those was wonky.

Sacha spread his hands wide. “I’m not entirely sure, I have to be honest with you,” he said. “This isn’t a situation I’ve ever encountered before. At a best guess, I’d say we should wait here until Mr Hanssen is finished talking to the police. Hopefully by then, we’ll have some news of Jasmine.”

They lapsed back into silence. Lofty, who was sitting to the left of Dom on a small pile of medical ethics textbooks, shot him a concerned glance. Dom gave him a wan smile. Lofty still didn’t look too great himself, with his red-rimmed eyes and the greenish tinge still colouring his skin.

It was a good hour before Hanssen came to Sacha’s room and pulled him out into the corridor to speak to him in private. When Sacha returned, his face was creased with worry lines.

“Right, everyone,” he said. “The police have everything they need from you tonight, but they might call at college tomorrow to get clarification on some points.” 

He drew in a deep breath. “Obviously, none of you who have lectures or supervisions tomorrow need to attend them. I’ve let your college know what’s happened, too, Zosia, so you shouldn’t have any problems. It might be a good idea for you all to think about whether you need to talk to someone, once you’ve had a night’s sleep. We’re going to try and have a counsellor from the university services in all day tomorrow, so just let me know if you want to see them.”

“Is there any news about Jasmine?” asked Zosia in a croaky voice. Sacha’s lips turned down, and he shook his head.

“It’s early days,” he said. “No news doesn’t mean anything’s amiss. You can all stay in my office until we get a call, if you’d like, but you are free to go to your rooms if you’d prefer.”

No one moved. Sacha nodded, and sat back down in the chair by his desk. 

It was another forty minutes or so before Dom’s phone began ringing; Ollie and Damon, who’d been dozing, sat bolt upright. Dom had never been so glad that his phone had a stock ringtone, instead of some comedic tune, as every eye in the room swivelled to him. The phone slipped through his fingers more than once before he managed to accept the call.

“Dom?” Morven’s voice was high and panicked. Dom’s chest clenched painfully.

“Morv, are you okay? What’s happening?”

“I don’t – she’s, she’s been taken to the ICU now, I went up but I’m not family, they won’t let me in.”

“Is Jac there?”

“Yeah, I think – I think so, she was waiting in A&E when we got in, she was crying, then she went through with them but I wasn’t allowed to go, and then I was speaking to the police, and now I don’t – I can’t go, I can’t leave her, I can’t. Not after what happened to –” Morven broke off into hiccupping sobs, leaving Arthur’s name unsaid. 

Disregarding the image of Jac crying, which was too much for him to process, Dom found himself wondering – not for the first time – just how deep Morven’s feelings for Jasmine ran. He wished he was there with her, to give her a hug and promise her it would all be alright, even though he still didn’t know whether it would be.

“Okay,” he said, trying not to let his own voice quiver. “That’s okay. We’re all with Sacha at the moment. Do you want one of us to come to the hospital to be with you while you wait?”

“I don’t know,” said Morven. “I just want to see her, Dom.”

“I know,” he said. “I know you do. Should someone come?”

There was a sudden flurry of doors opening on the other end of the line, and the unmistakable sound of Jac’s strident tones, shouting at some poor member of the ICU team.

“– A scared kid you’ve left out here for hours without even telling me! What were you thinking?”

“Oh, Dom, I think –”

“She’s stable,” Dom heard Jac saying, presumably to Morven. “She’s got a good chance of getting through.”

Morven let out a little sound halfway between a gasp and a cry. Then, Jac’s voice was clearer, as if Morven had thrown her arms around the older woman, while still holding her phone in her hand.

“Okay, that’s quite enough of that, thank you very much,” said Jac, and her next words were from more of a distance. “You can go in now. For a minute, no more.”

“Thank you,” Morven said, then seemed to remember that she was still on the phone to Dom. “Oh, Dom, did you hear all that?”

“Yep,” said Dom. “Go on, give us a ring tomorrow and we’ll try to get up and visit too, if we’re allowed.”

He relayed the news to the others. Sacha let his head fall to the table in relief. Damon began to cry, his breath hitching as he struggled to stop himself. Cameron reached out and patted his hand. 

“Okay, guys, that’s great news,” said Sacha. “Fingers crossed things will keep improving overnight. It might be a good idea for you to –”

A sharp double-rap at the door interrupted him. He answered it to two police officers. One, a woman with a blonde bob and a solemn face, asked if they could speak to Mickey Ellisson. Jez’s arm tightened around Mickey, who looked up in surprise.

“I thought you’d told Mr Hanssen you had everything you needed for now?” Sacha said. “They’ve all been through a lot tonight. They’re just kids.”

“I understand that, Mr Levy,” said the policewoman, who was balancing her helmet under her arm. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t urgent. He’s not in any trouble.” She glanced over his shoulder to Mickey, who was already standing up, pulling Jez along with him. “Mr Ellisson?”

“Can – can my boyfriend stay with me?” asked Mickey, in a trembling voice. Dom saw Jez’s little start at being claimed as Mickey’s boyfriend in front of everyone, before he squeezed Mickey’s shoulder. The officer nodded. 

“If that’s what you’d like,” she said. Dom caught Lofty’s eyes; he looked as confused as Dom felt. Mickey and Jez followed the police officer out of the room, and Sacha stepped outside with them too, closing the door behind him. From inside the room, they could hear very little, until a sudden cry from Mickey tore through the air, muffled somewhat but still all-too-recognisable. 

“No!”

Dom thought he could hear Jez murmuring something, and the police officers and Sacha talking in low, calm tones. What was less unclear was Mickey’s distress. It was a full five minutes before footsteps could be heard making the old wooden staircase creak, and Sacha returned to his office alone. His mouth was set in a grim line.

“It seems that the man who attacked Jasmine has been killed in a traffic accident trying to escape the area,” he said. 

Zosia gasped, and Damon jerked upright from where he’d been leaning against the window frame. Dom’s mind whirred, unable to work through all of the implications at once. 

What did it mean that Scott Ellisson was apparently now nothing more than a splatter on the roadside? They would never see him punished for what he’d done to Jasmine. Mickey had lost his brother, just hours after finding out the lengths Scott’s hatred would drive him to. But still, knowing that, Dom couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry that the man was dead; a hard, stony lump of hatred had nestled itself in against his ribcage.

He glanced guiltily up at Lofty, almost expecting to be faced with some kind of reproach for his lack of reaction. But Lofty looked similarly blank, anything he was feeling beyond sheer tiredness hidden beneath a slight frown that was impossible for Dom to read.

“Poor Mickey,” said Zosia, after a few moments. 

“Yes,” said Sacha, casting his eyes around the room with his hands on his hips. “I know this is a lot for everyone to be dealing with tonight. I’d suggest it might be time for bed, now. There’s very little that can be done till morning. Get some rest, and I’ll send out an email to you the minute I get any news about Jasmine at all.”

They filed out of his office with a dull sense of exhaustion draped over the top of them like an enclosing net. Dom went through the motions of hugging Zosia goodnight, stumbling upstairs with Lofty on his heels, and changing into his pyjamas in his room. It wasn’t until he was standing in front of the mirror above the bathroom sink, with Lofty one sink over brushing his teeth, that he snapped out of his daze a little.

Lofty seemed to be staring through his own reflection in the mirror, unseeing, methodically scrubbing at his teeth. Dom watched him spit blood-flecked foam into the sink, and he couldn’t bear to ignore it for fear of being too forward, or prying where he wasn’t wanted.

“Are you okay, Lofty?” he asked.

Lofty blinked, his hands stilling. “Me? Yeah, I’m fine. Are you?”

Dom shook his head. “Not really,” he said. “But –  _ are  _ you okay?”

Lofty turned away to wipe his mouth with his hand towel, and shrugged. “I think anyone would be hard-pushed not to feel pretty bad after a night like this,” he said. “It’s not about me, though.”

“It’s as much about you as it is about any of us!” Dom said, following Lofty as he went to leave the bathroom, walking back along the corridor to his room. “You were there, you’re Jasmine’s friend too.”

Lofty slowed down, and turned to face him as they stopped just short of Dom’s door. Dom’s breath caught at the look on Lofty’s face; a combination of weariness and guilt, which threw him for a loop. What did  _ Lofty _ have to feel guilty about?

“Yes,” said Lofty, after a minute. “I was there. And I couldn’t do anything.”

Dom started: he’d almost forgotten he was waiting for a response. 

“What do you mean?” he asked. “There’s nothing you could have done. Nothing any of us could have.”

“I know,” said Lofty. “I know, but –” His voice cracked, and he dropped his eyes to the ground. “Why did this have to happen? Why her?”

Dom took a step closer. “I don’t know,” he said. “Scott fucking Ellisson has a lot to answer for.”

“Is it terrible that I feel glad he’s dead?” Lofty said, his voice so low Dom had to lean in to hear him.

“No,” he said, trying to make sure none of his shock at Lofty’s admission bled through into his reply. He didn’t want to make Lofty think he was judging him for thinking what any normal person would. “I feel the same, right now.”

Lofty looked up quickly, a searing, terrified glance that pinned Dom to the spot. He felt suddenly uncertain, knocked off-balance by Lofty’s unexpected intensity. He had no idea what any of it meant.

The moment broke as Lofty took a step back and ran a hand through his curls. They fell back against his head messier than they had been before, and Dom’s fingers itched to reach out and fix them in place properly.

“I should – we should,” said Lofty, gesturing at his door just up the corridor past Dom’s. Dom was about to agree, but some rogue, reckless feeling rose in his gut, stopping him short. He leant forward to catch Lofty’s wrist before he could turn away from him. Lofty froze, staring at him with huge, dark eyes. Dom tried to remember how to speak, the inside of his mouth suddenly too dry. Was he really about to – 

“Stay,” he said. “Stay?” He was. He had. He was tempted to drop Lofty’s arm and go lock himself in his room for the next twelve hours, but just as he was about to disavow every word that had ever passed his lips and put in for another college move as soon as he was able, Lofty’s free hand reached up and touched Dom’s fingers where they were still curled around his wrist.

“I – is that – what do you mean?” he asked, so unsteadily that Dom felt the need to explain himself instead of denying that he’d ever said it in the first place.

“I just didn’t – I thought, better than us both being alone. Tonight, of all nights. Obviously, we don’t – I didn’t mean – you don’t have to, I just thought. I don’t need anything. I just thought –”

“Okay,” said Lofty.

Dom thought he must have misheard. “What?”

“Okay,” said Lofty. “I’ll stay.”

*

Dom woke to the sensation of falling; he was lying on his front, his heart thudding against the mattress as he realised that he wasn’t actually hurtling through the air to his doom.

It was then that he also remembered the bizarre, uncomfortable fact that he wasn’t alone in the bed. He was also half-hard, which was as unsurprising as it was mortifying. Furious embarrassment warred with a stifling combination of drowsiness, desire, and panic, and a whole other tangled mess of feelings he didn’t want to prise apart and examine too closely before he’d even figured a way out of the mess he’d landed himself in the middle of. 

He could feel the warmth radiating from Lofty’s body at his side, his arm pressed flush against Dom’s side. He twisted his shoulders and, hiding most of his face and mouth against the pillow, snuck a glance at Lofty.

He seemed to be asleep. The duvet had slipped down to his waist, leaving the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath his thin pyjama top exposed. Dom tried not to feel too weird about watching him while he slept; he couldn’t really stop himself if he wanted to. He studied Lofty’s face, marking the way his curls fell into his closed eyes, the way his lips were just slightly pursed as he exhaled, the barest hint of stubble making a tentative appearance across the line of his jaw.

Dom scrunched his eyes closed so tightly he saw neon stars explode behind his eyelids. What was he thinking? Jasmine was lying in hospital, seriously injured, and he was here mooning over Lofty, who had probably only agreed to stay the night out of some misguided desire to offer him friendship and support.

_ Why _ had he even asked him to stay in the first place, though? He had a strange intuition that it had been more about Lofty than his own wants: about the way he had responded when Dom asked him if he was okay. Like he’d never expected to be asked. Like he wasn’t deserving of the same kindnesses he extended to everyone around him. How could someone like Lofty feel that way? 

Lofty murmured, beginning to stir, and Dom quickly shut his eyes, hoping to avoid any potential awkwardness. It was more than a bit weird, he reflected, to have asked Lofty to spend the night with him. Weirder, perhaps, to wake up with him and have to work out what to do and say now.

He didn’t want Lofty to take it the wrong way, to assume that Dom had been making a move on him again. He’d just wanted to be close to someone, after watching one of his best friends fight for her life in front of him, and he’d thought that maybe Lofty wanted that, too; why would he have agreed, otherwise?

He felt Lofty shift beside him, sitting up, and worked on making his breathing sound deep and even, keeping his eyes firmly closed and praying that Lofty wouldn’t notice his unwitting arousal.

There were a few seconds of stillness, in which Dom tried not to let himself imagine that Lofty was watching him, thinking he was asleep. He was more likely to be plotting his quickest means of escape. 

As if on cue, the mattress tilted as Lofty scrambled to extricate himself from the duvet and climb over Dom to get out of the bed. Dom listened to Lofty stumble across the dawn darkness of the room, and swear under his breath as he stubbed his toe against something. He seemed to pause again before he opened the door. 

Something told Dom that he should forget caution and pretend to wake up, that he should insist on saying something – anything – to Lofty before he disappeared. Instead, he rolled over and burrowed down until the duvet was almost covering his head; there was no way Lofty could now see anything other than a formless lump from where he stood.

It was only a moment later that he heard the door being pulled open and, shortly after, clicking shut.

*

It had been very early when Lofty left his room, and Dom didn’t go back to sleep. He was up and dressed by half-eight and, in the absence of any email from Sacha, he went down into Third Court just for something to do, hoping the crisp morning breeze might clear his head. 

He sat on one of the benches fixed on the gravel of the Japanese Renaissance garden, eating a cereal bar. Every few minutes, he found himself refreshing his inbox, but by the time it turned nine, there was still no word.

He was about to return to his room to wait for news, when he spotted the tall, commanding figure of Jac Naylor striding across the courtyard with a rucksack slung over her shoulder. She glanced sideways at him, and beckoned him to her with a flick of her finger when she recognised him.

“You, come with me. You know my sister better than I do, you can help,” she said. Dom was too surprised to say much in response; he trailed after her up the several flights of stairs to Jasmine’s room. She had got a spare key from the Porters, and they both stood awkwardly in the middle of the room when she let them in.

“How is she?” asked Dom. Jac moved towards the chest beneath the window, and began to pull open the drawers.

“Critical but stable,” she said. “It doesn’t seem like the knife penetrated any major organs. She’s sedated for now, but if she continues to improve, they’ll probably wake her up this afternoon. The main risk now is infection. But all being well, she could be on a normal ward by tomorrow afternoon.”

Dom breathed a sigh of relief. “Do you – have you heard about Scott Ellisson?”

Jac’s face hardened, screwing up in an expression of loathing so furious that Dom thought perhaps it was just as well the man in question had been killed by his own stupidity before Jac had got a chance to confront him. 

“Yes,” she said. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

Dom said nothing, eager to let the matter drop. He was glad he didn’t have to be the one to tell her, at any rate. She seemed just as happy to change the subject; she held up a frilly blue nightdress for inspection, and Dom made a face at it. Jac snorted.

“No, not even Sacha would dress her in that,” she said, almost to herself. She dropped it back into the drawer it had come from. “Where did she even  _ get  _ that thing?” 

“Is – is Morven still with her?” he asked, and nodded his approval at the next nightshirt she held up for consideration, with an illustration of a cuddly-looking polar bear and the phrase ‘Bear With Me, It’s Morning’ written across it. Jac folded it briskly and dropped it into the rucksack.

“She stayed at the bedside all night,” said Jac. “Wouldn’t leave for love nor money.” Her tone expressed a reluctant admiration, Dom thought.

He helped her choose another nightshirt, this time with nautical stripes and an anchor on the decorative chest pocket. Jac threw a few pairs of knickers and socks into the bag, and they set about gathering up some toiletries.

“You know that Morven girl well, don’t you?” said Jac. 

“Yes,” he said, bristling at her choice of words even though he knew it was just her way, and that she wasn’t really being that rude, for her. “She was going out with my best friend.”

“Digby, of course,” Jac murmured, her voice softening a little. She’d taught Arthur in his first year and, bizarrely, they’d both seemed to enjoy each other’s intellectual company. Dom turned his face away a little at the memory, trying not to let her see what he was thinking. When she spoke again, there was a slight edge to her voice. “I shouldn’t ask you, but, are she and Jasmine…” she trailed off, leaving the implication hanging in midair.

Dom tilted his head. “I couldn’t tell you, even if I knew,” he said. 

“No,” she said. “But you don’t know?”

“I really don’t,” said Dom. He wasn’t lying. “I’ve never asked.”

She nodded. He couldn’t tell how she felt about the possibility. She was Jasmine’s sister, but she hadn’t been privy to most of the usual information or confidences sisters might share if they were involved in each other’s life. He wondered if that ever made her as sad as it made Jasmine.

He wondered if Jasmine had ever wanted to tell Jac about who Morven was to her, or if they’d never been close enough for her to even consider it. Neither of them had ever made a secret of their affection for one another, and it had started rumours among some of the medical students across the second and third years. But they’d never seemed to feel the need to confirm or deny anything about their relationship, not even to their nearest friends. Maybe they were close friends, and that’s all there was to it. Or maybe it had just never needed defining.

They finished the rest of the packing in silence. She jerked her head at him when they were done. 

“Are you coming back with me?” she said. “Maybe you can talk some sense into the girl and get her to go sleep before she keels over and ends up needing a bed on the ward herself.”

Dom very much doubted that Morven would be swayed by anything he could say to her, but he nodded anyway. Jac had parked her car, a blue Audi with recent plates, in a space just in front of the scrubby little Darwin garden, the college’s lacklustre tribute to one of its most illustrious alumni. 

They drove to Addenbrookes at a snail’s pace, tailing several double decker buses and being constantly outstripped and overtaken by cyclists. Dom couldn’t help sneaking sideways glances at her whenever she was focusing solely on the road, wondering if the woman with cheekbones that could cut diamonds and a heart rumoured to be even flintier could really have been reduced to tears at the sight of the half-sister she barely even knew lying on a stretcher in A&E.

“Something on your mind, there, Mr Copeland?” Jac said, catching him off-guard. Dom shook his head and hastily turned to look out of the window on his side. 

“No,” he said. “Nothing.”

“Hm.” She pulled into the staff car park round the back of the hospital and manoeuvred the car into a reserved spot near an entrance. Dom finally took note of the dark circles under her eyes and the way her jaw clenched to hold back a yawn as she twisted around to grab the bag full of Jasmine’s things on the back seat. The force of her presence was so overwhelming that it was hard to push past that to find any hint of a weakness.

“Did you stay with Jasmine all night?” he asked, on an absurd impulse. Jac blinked at him.

“No,” she said. “I was called away to deal with an emergency on my ward at three.”

“You should take your own advice and go sleep, if you’ve been awake all night.” said Dom. She quirked an eyebrow at him, looking almost amused.

“Touching as I find your concern, it’s misplaced. I’m a consultant, I’m more than used to nights with little or no sleep.”

“Not many of them where you’ve already worked half a shift and you’re also worried your little sister’s going to die,” said Dom.

She regarded him closely for a few moments, as Dom tried not to quiver under her appraisal. Then, she shrugged, seeming to sag a little under the weight of the past ten hours.

“No,” she said. “Not many.” Then, because she was Jac Naylor, she added drily: “Come on, then: the sooner you go and take over from the girl who thinks she’s the Kevin Costner to my sister’s Whitney Houston, the sooner you can rest safe in the knowledge that I’m going to catch a few hours’ sleep in the on-call room.”

*

When Dom approached Jasmine’s room, alone, as Jac had paused to speak to one of her colleagues on the ward, he spotted Morven propping herself up on Jasmine’s bed. She looked worn out – her curly hair was messy, and she was wearing the same clothes she’d been in the previous night, a small splatter of dried blood marking the shoulder of her light pink top.

Laid out on the bed, hooked up to several machines whose incessant beeping could be heard from where Dom stood in the corridor, was Jasmine. She was so small and pale against the white sheets, looking more like a ghost than a real, flesh and blood girl. Dom set his jaw, and pushed open the door.

“Hey, Morv,” he said. She sat bolt upright, looking around with bleary eyes. 

“Oh, Dom!” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“Jac drove me in,” he told her. “It’s a long story. How is she?”

Morven sighed. “She’s still fighting.”

“Of course she is,” said Dom. “She’s not one for quitting, is she?”

Morven didn’t reply. “Jac was here all night, apart from when she got called away for an hour,” she said. “I thought – you know, I told Jasmine all that crap about Jac just pushing her away because she didn’t want anyone to see her feeling something, but I thought – I really thought she just couldn’t be bothered. I thought she’d never really care, not as much as Jas cares about her.”

“But?” Dom asked, pulling up a red plastic chair and sitting beside Morven.

“But I saw her last night,” said Morven. “She was crying, screaming at the other doctors, she was holding her hand and talking to her, she didn’t want to leave even when there was an emergency she needed to deal with. She really loves her.”

“She nearly lost her,” said Dom. “Maybe it made her realise exactly what she stood to lose.”

“I nearly lost her, too,” said Morven. “And I couldn’t, Dom. Not after Arthur. I couldn’t lose her too. I don’t know what I’d do.”

Dom put his arm around her shoulders. “It’s okay,” he said. “She’s still here. She’s going to be fine.”

“I heard Scott Ellisson – I heard he died,” said Morven. “How’s Mickey?”

Dom just looked at her, unable to fight back the wave of affection crashing up through him and leaving him with what was probably a soppy expression on his face. She frowned. “What?”

“Oh,” said Dom. “Well, it’s just that you’re the one of the bravest, kindest people on the planet, you know that?”

Morven’s forehead crinkled in surprise. “No,” she said.

“Yes,” Dom insisted. “I haven’t seen Mickey since he found out. I think he’ll feel terrible, all things considered.”

Morven closed her eyes. “At least he’s got Jez,” she said, then, in a much quieter voice: “At least I’ve still got Jas.”

“Hey.” Jac’s brusque greeting from the doorway made them both jump. “Are you still not in bed yet?” she said, fixing her steely blue eyes on Morven. Dom wondered how much of their conversation she’d overheard, standing on the threshold.

“I can’t leave,” said Morven, looking to Dom for support. He squeezed her shoulder, knowing he had to side with Jac, and not just because she would kill him if he didn’t.

“You need to rest,” he said. “And properly, I mean, not all contorted in a plastic chair like that. Look, Jasmine’s probably going to stay under until later this afternoon at least. Why don’t I stay with her? You can go sleep, and come back here in a bit.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he carried on. “Morven, you’re shattered. You’re not going to be much use to Jasmine when she wakes up if you’re too tired to keep your eyes open.”

Morven’s lips curled unhappily. “I don’t want to be away from her,” she said, but she sounded less certain now.

“I’ll call you the minute anything’s about to change,” said Dom, sensing that he’d won the battle. “You need to rest.” 

Morven’s hand ghosted over Jasmine’s, and then she sighed and stood up.

“Okay,” she said.

“Will you go back to college?” Dom asked.

She shook her head. “You remember Fletch, Raf’s housemate? He was in earlier, he heard about Jas from someone down in A&E. He said he’s got an office with a futon over on his ward if I need it. I’ll go find him.”

She glanced over at Jac, who hadn’t said a word during their exchange.

“You – you should sleep, too,” said Morven to her. Jac tilted her head, a hint of wry amusement playing on her lips for a second or two.

“So I’ve been told,” she said. “Go.”

Dom pulled Morven to him and gave her a kiss on the forehead. She wrapped her arms around him tightly. He returned her embrace, a sick twist in his stomach reminding him of how he’d held her after they’d watched Arthur die, the two of them clinging to each other as though they would never be able to let go. 

But Jasmine wasn’t dead, he thought to himself, almost faint with relief, as he let her go, and Morven left the room with downcast eyes. Jasmine was still fighting, still breathing, still living. Morven might get her second chance at happiness, with Jasmine, if that was what they both wanted.

He remembered that Jac was still in the room, and turned to find her watching him with a curiously pained expression. If it had been any other person in front of him, Dom would have sworn she was holding back tears.

“Right,” she said, pulling a card out of the pocket of her trousers and handing it over to him. “If in doubt, call me. I’m going to go phone your DOS, and then I’m going to sleep.”

Dom nodded, and shifted his chair closer to the side of Jasmine’s bed as the door to the private room closed behind Jac.

“Hey, Jas,” he said. “It’s Dom.” Jasmine’s chest rose and fell steadily, the ventilator doing its job to breath for her while she healed. Dom knew that a few people under sedation recalled at least part of what had happened while they were under, so he tried to make his tone soothing. Just in case she heard and retained anything, however unlikely. 

“You’ve had us all in a state. Morv, especially. She really loves you, you know. Well, of course you do. You’re the one who knows her best.” He took her hand, and squeezed it gently. He’d never had siblings by blood, but he imagined that if he did, he might feel this way about them; the deep, protective urge that hurt in its magnitude, making him by turns furious at her for stepping in the path of a knife, and then proud of her for not even thinking before she’d acted.

“We’re all waiting for you to wake up,” he said. “You’d better watch out – there’ll probably be balloons. Maybe even party hats. Then again, you’ll probably be thrilled; you love parties.”

He wished she was awake. He wanted to hear her laugh again, to hear that airy, carefree sound. He wanted to hear her speak to him, to tell him that she wanted cake, too, if there was going to be any sort of celebration.

“Jac and I brought you some stuff,” he said. “Can you imagine, me and your sister, trying to figure out how to dress you? She actually enlisted me, you know, and then gave me a lift here. It’s so weird, to see her almost being – well, human.”

A few minutes passed, and a nurse came in to check the monitors Jasmine was hooked up to, and to take a note of her blood pressure. Dom felt that there was something particularly awful being a medical student watching a loved one in hospital – knowing what all the machines did and what their readings meant was sending his mind into overdrive, analysing every little detail.

“Are you her boyfriend, then, lovie?” the nurse asked, fiddling with Jasmine’s drip. Dom barely held back a snort.

“No,” he said. “I’m her friend.”

“Oh, sorry,” she said with a cheerful grin. “You know what they say about assumptions.”

Dom gave her a stilted smile, and waited until she was safely out of the room before turning back to address the unconscious Jasmine.

“Boyfriend?” he said, letting his disbelief bleed into his tone. “That’s a new one on me. I don’t think anyone’s thought I was straight since at least Michaelmas term of first year. Not even my dad, although I’m sure he’s still hoping I’ll have a change of heart one of these days.”

He let himself blather on to Jasmine, saying anything and everything that came to mind. Eventually, his thoughts returned to Lofty.

“I know it was weird to ask him to sleep over,” he told her. “But isn’t it weird that he said yes, too? Surely we’re just both as weird as each other – does that cancel it out?”

Jasmine’s face was serene, even as tubes stuck out of her nose and her hair lay lank and flat against the pillows. Dom sighed.

“I shouldn’t tell you all this,” he said. “What if you can hear me? You’ve got enough to be getting on with, without having to think about me and Lofty, too.”

He squeezed her hand, and cast about for a different topic. “Hey,” he said. “Did anyone ever tell you about the time Morven locked herself in her wardrobe to test how long it would take for someone to notice she was missing?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely comments and kudos, everyone! I want to reiterate that, as far as I know, the Cambridge Wetherspoons is fairly low-key and has never had a stabbing on their premises. Also, I have no idea how a Cambridge college would actually deal with a student getting stabbed, but I figure that Hanssen and Sacha, as Senior Tutor and Director of Studies, respectively would try their best to be good at the whole 'pastoral care' thing.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey's parents make an unwelcome appearance, Lofty doesn't show up at all, and Dom hears a revelation he wouldn't have guessed in a million years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter are Neo-Nazis, referenced and implied racism (including dehumanising pronouns), homophobia, trauma.

By the time Jac returned to Jasmine’s room, it was nearly two o’clock, and Dom was reduced to making snide observations to Jasmine about the nurses and doctors whenever they were out of earshot. He knew that if she was awake, she would be torn between berating him for being mean, and laughing at the accuracy of his remarks.

“You should get food,” Jac said, in her typically abrupt way. Dom gave a little jump, and twisted round to see her looming in the doorway, wearing her dark purple scrubs. A few strands escaped the tight ponytail she’d pulled her hair back into. She was still pale and the line of her jaw was strained, but she looked less ready to fall asleep on her feet than she had previously. 

“Okay,” said Dom. He guessed that she hadn’t been given much of an opportunity to spend time with Jasmine alone, if Morven had been with her all last night. He didn’t think it was likely Jac would open up to her sister with him – or even a conscious Jasmine, if he was honest – in the room, and so he made himself scarce, power-walking down the corridor to the café. At one of the tables, he spotted Damon, brandishing a huge mug of steaming tea at a nauseous-looking Jez. When Damon saw Dom, he shot him a weary look over Jez’s head.

“ _ Drink _ the bloody tea, would you?” he said, putting the mug down firmly between Jez’s limp hands. “It’s not arsenic, I promise. Hi, Dom.”

Jez turned to him with the look of a hunted hare in his eyes; he looked almost ready to bolt.

“Hey,” said Dom. “Mind if I sit here?” He cringed inwardly at himself; he really wasn’t great at the whole emotional sensitivity thing. 

“Were you here to see Jasmine?” asked Damon. Jez flinched a little.

“Yeah,” said Dom. “I sat with her while Jac and Morven got some sleep.” He turned to Jez, trying to find the right way to start a conversation. “How’s – how’s Mickey holding up?”

Jez’s eyes fluttered closed for a second, his fingers finally clenching around the base of the mug. “Not good,” he said.

“He’s at the Bereavement Office now,” said Damon, ignoring the glare of betrayal Jez shot him as he volunteered the information, adding: “He’s been with the police all morning.”

“It’s not fucking fair!” Jez exploded, drawing eyes from several other tables to him, and earning tuts from a few of the more prudish among the customers. He clenched his jaw and looked down at the mug between his hands, lowering his voice. “He’s not the one who should be answering to them; it should be that damn brother of his!”

“I know, mate,” said Damon, his hand on Jez’s shoulder. “I know.”

The sound of a woman wailing filtered down to them from further along the corridor that ran past the open-plan café area. A few seconds later, the maker of the sound came into view; it was a petite, wispy blonde woman propped up by a hulking, bald man with what looked like – to Dom’s horror – a swastika tattoo, uncaringly displayed for the world to see on his upper arm, just below the sleeve of his t-shirt.

Jez ducked his head, eyes bulging.

“That’s Mickey’s parents,” he hissed. Dom could have guessed as much, but the confirmation made him feel a bit shaky. Damon was also, understandably, unnerved at the idea of being so close to a violent Neo-Nazi, his hands trembling slightly as the Ellissons passed them by; mercifully, they were too wrapped up in themselves to give much thought to the two black men and a gay guy staring at them from the café.

“I don’t want Mickey to see them,” Jez admitted, once they were long gone. “They’ll blame him, if they find out the truth. And he’ll let them.”

“He’s better off without them,” said Dom.

“You both are,” Damon chipped in.

Jez covered his nose and mouth with his hands. “Yeah,” he said, letting his fingers slide down his face. “Let’s hope Mickey sees it that way.”

*

Zosia turned up at the hospital just before half-five, Ollie in tow, greeting Dom in the foyer with a one-armed hug, as she was balancing a huge, pink teddy bear on her hip with the other.

“From all of us,” she said. “I got it from the toy shop in town. Cameron pitched in a fiver, and Damon said he’ll give the same when he sees one of us next.”

“Where’s it going to go?” Dom asked, rooting in his pocket for change to offer her. “It’s bigger than Jasmine.”

“I told her that,” said Ollie. “Did I not tell you that?”

Zosia rolled her eyes, adjusting her hold on the bear. “We’ll find a place for it,” she said. “What’s the news?”

“She was brought round a couple of hours ago, so she’s still a bit woozy. I haven’t seen her yet, but Jac and Morven have been in and out.”

“Well,” said Zosia, considering. “Maybe we should put this in Jac’s office or something till Jasmine’s on a normal ward.”

“Wait,” said Dom. “You want to put that,” he nodded at the massive ball of pink fluff and googly eyes, “in Jac’s room? Fuck yes, I love it. Let’s go find her.”

They made their way to ICU, and came across Jac standing outside, in conference with several nurses and a junior doctor. When she spotted the teddy in Zosia’s arms, she swivelled around, arms folded.

“If you’ve brought that monstrosity for my sister, the answer is ‘absolutely not’.”

“It  _ is _ for Jasmine, but we were hoping we could keep it in your office until she’s on a normal ward, Ms Naylor,” said Zosia, ever the one with the least fear and the fewest preservation instincts out of them all. Dom exchanged a look with Ollie as Jac grimaced, before throwing up her hands in exasperated surrender.

“Fine, whatever,” she said. “I suppose it’s about time someone took over your father’s position as the laughing stock of this hospital.”

Dom couldn’t help snickering at that, and Ollie sounded equally amused, though they both attempted to disguise it with sudden coughs. Zosia was powerless to elbow either of them in the ribs for their betrayal, given that her arms were still full of the giant lump of pink fur she’d bought.

“Valentine, take the wretched thing from her and follow me,” said Jac, wiping the smirk off Ollie’s face. She nodded at Dom and Zosia. “You two shouldn’t really be allowed in when she’s already got one visitor, but nepotism does have its occasional advantages. Don’t tire her out.”

Zosia, already bouncing back from the slight against her father, gave Ollie a cheerful wave as he hauled the bear off up the corridor in Jac’s wake. Dom led the way to Jasmine’s bedside, and they made sure to disinfect their hands with antibacterial soap before entering the room. 

“Hi, guys,” said Jasmine croakily. The front of her bed had been raised slightly, propping her forward so that she almost looked as though she was sitting up. Her hair had been brushed back into a loose ponytail to disguise the fact that it hadn’t been washed. Dom grinned at her, overcome by the sight of her with her eyes open, talking to him.

“Back with us, I see,” he said, pushing through the lump in his throat.

Morven gave them both a watery smile from her seat at Jasmine’s side. 

“Hey,” she said, as they pulled up chairs for themselves. Zosia was already telling Jasmine about the present they’d bought for her, and how it was currently making its way to Jac’s office.

Jasmine laughed, then winced and lifted her hand, which was hooked up by cannula to an IV drip, to her side.

“Don’t touch!” Morven said, automatically moving to catch hold of Jasmine’s hand. Their eyes met, and something passed between them that made Dom want to look away for fear of intruding on their privacy.

The moment passed, and they began to talk lightly about things like the weather – though Dom had hardly been outside since that morning – and which nurses on the ward were the nicest.

“To be honest, I think everyone who knows I’m related to Jac is terrified in case I tell her they’re upsetting me,” said Jasmine, her voice still scratchy, like her larynx had been dragged across sandpaper.

“She’s a force to be reckoned with,” Zosia agreed. “Just ask my dad.”

Everyone else made a face. “Ugh. Don’t spring the image of your dad and her sister having sex on me without warning, ever again,” said Dom, electing to ignore the fact that he’d been the one to bring it up just the other day, when he and Zosia were having lunch with Lofty. Jasmine nodded in fervent agreement with the sentiment.

Dom didn’t know if Jasmine had been told about Scott Ellisson’s death; he guessed not, given her reasonably relaxed demeanour. It wasn’t the sort of thing you told someone when they were still dealing with the effects of sedation for a serious trauma wound, he supposed. He wondered who would be responsible for telling her. Probably the police, whenever they turned up.

As if summoned by Dom’s thought, it was a mere five minutes later that he spotted uniforms at the reception desk. A nurse was pointing out Jasmine’s room to them. Morven touched Jasmine’s arm.

“I think the police are here to talk to you,” she said.

Jasmine sank down into the pillow behind her, her eyes fluttering closed. The heart rate monitor picked up a little, beeping insistently in the background.

“I don’t really want to talk to them,” she said. “I’m tired.”

“I’ll go see if I can find Jac,” said Zosia, leaping up. “I’m sure she’ll want to be here to make sure you’re well enough for them to ask you questions.”

She returned two minutes later with Jac and Ollie in tow. Jac’s lips were downturned, lines furrowing deep into her forehead as she spoke with one of the officers just outside the room. Eventually, she nodded, and stepped inside. 

“You lot, out,” she said, with a single jerk of her thumb. Dom and Morven hastened to obey, Morven promising Jasmine she’d be right back, and dropping a kiss on her cheek so fleeting Dom almost thought he’d imagined it. Jac didn’t respond to it, at any rate, simply gesturing to the police officers to come inside. Dom and Morven went to join Ollie and Zosia in the corridor, only to find that Damon, Jez, and Mickey had emerged from the far reaches of Addenbrookes’ bereavement system, and had joined up with their little group.

Mickey looked dreadful: his eyes were red-rimmed and his hair was scraped into a haphazard bun on top of his head. He was clutching Jez’s hand like he’d drown if he let go. Jez didn’t look much better, with a damp stain near the collar of his shirt where, Dom thought, it looked like Mickey had been crying into the fabric.

“How is she?” Mickey asked, his face fixed in a rigid mask of anxious tension.

“Okay. She’s awake,” said Dom, and Mickey visibly deflated, the fear sliding from him like a heavy drop of rain that had been weighing down a leaf.

“Thank God,” he said.

“The police are talking to her now,” Zosia said. “She’s doing remarkably well, all things considered.”

Jez took Mickey’s face in both hands, angling his chin up towards him. “See,” he said. “She’s going to be alright.”

Mickey let out a sigh that was almost a sob, and dropped his head onto Jez’s shoulder. 

“Oi!” A loud shout rang out from the bottom of the corridor, breaking the relieved tableau apart.

Everyone’s attention swivelled in unison to the source of the noise. Dom felt himself go hot and cold all at once, the naked fear he’d felt at the pub last night flooding through his veins again: it was Mickey’s father, being ineffectually restrained by his mother. They barrelled up to the little group, Mickey’s mother dragged along by the sheer force of the Ellisson patriarch’s rage. Dom spun around to catch the attention of Damon, who was staring at the scene unfolding before him with wide eyes, blinking rapidly.

“Get the police here,” he said. “Now.” Damon didn’t have to be told twice; he shot off into the ward, his shoes skidding against the polished floor.

“Your brother’s corpse isn’t even cold on its slab yet, and you’re out in broad daylight fooling around with this filth.” He stepped forward, and jabbed a finger directly at Jez’s chest. “I swear to almighty God, if you don’t get away from my son right this minute, I’m going to fucking –”

“Roy!” Mickey’s mother yanked at her husband’s arm, before turning on her son. “Have you no shame, Mickey? Look what you’ve done to this family!”

“What I’ve done?” Mickey’s voice was shaking, but he didn’t step away from Jez, instead pulling him even closer. “It’s the hate you taught Scott that made him do this, it wasn’t anything to do with me!”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night!” Roy Ellisson bellowed. “Though how you  _ can _ sleep, lying next to that, I don’t know.”

“It’s over,” said Mickey, taking a step closer to his father, and watching the man’s mottled face screw up in confusion. Jez’s face lost some of its colour as he processed what Mickey had said, and he looked quickly from Mickey to his parents, and back again, mouth dropping open in dismay.

“What?” Roy Ellisson barked. His wife, however, had brightened somewhat, sensing the promise behind her son’s words.

“Over? Do you mean –”

“Me and you,” said Mickey, gesturing between his parents. He didn’t see the shock of realisation bloom into joy on Jez’s face behind him, his eyes fixed solely on his father as he delivered the final blow. “We’re done,” he continued. “You don’t want me as your son? Fine. You’re not fit to be my parents. You never were.”

“You ungrateful little –” Roy Ellisson raised his hand, and Jez wrenched a staggered Mickey out of reach, just as several pairs of footsteps thundered out of the ward; Damon, on the heels of the police officers from Jasmine’s room, and a broad-shouldered, muscular nurse who looked completely unimpressed by the scene he had been brought to witness. Dom breathed a sigh of peremptory relief. Maybe this wouldn’t end as badly as the last spat between the Ellissons.

“Mr Ellisson,” said the nurse, calmly interposing himself between the severed family unit that was Mickey and his mother and father. “I’m sure you remember me: Jacob Masters, saved your life that one time?”

Roy Ellisson had pulled up short at the sight of the tall nurse flanked by two law enforcement agents. He gaped at Jacob like a fish from the sea dropped into a bucket, on uncertain territory now that someone with charisma and composure was stepping in. Dom saw the moment he realised that the balance of power in the corridor had shifted out of his favour. He dropped back a step, muttering something about Jacob to his wife that sounded deeply uncomplimentary.

“What was that, Mr Ellisson?” asked Jacob, maddeningly serene in the face of such a galling display of hatred. “You might want to speak up, there. Or are you scared of what might happen if you say that particular set of words to my face?”

“We don’t want any trouble,” said Mrs Ellisson, her face taut and pinched. She was tugging at her husband’s arm, but he wasn’t paying her any mind. “We don’t want trouble here, do we, Roy? Do we?”

“You have a very funny way of showing it,” said Jacob, his tone almost genial. “Turning up at the door of my ward, shouting the odds at a bunch of kids half your age and more. It’s not the best way to pay me back, after all I’ve done for you, now, is it?”

“It’s a private matter,” said Mrs Ellisson who, despite her diminutive height, gave the distinct impression of looking down her nose at Jacob. “Family business.”

“It becomes a public matter, Mrs Ellisson, when you conduct your business outside of the family home,” said Jacob. “I suggest you take it back there, unless you wish to continue it down at the police station.”

“You shut your mouth!” Roy Ellisson exploded. Mickey cringed at the outburst, his face reddening in furious humiliation at the horrendous scene his parents were hellbent on making. Jacob folded his arms, and the police officers behind him inched forwards, hands on their cuffs and batons.

“I’d advise you to watch your words with me, sir,” said Jacob. “You know full well that my patience isn’t an infinite resource. It’s time for you to leave, whether voluntarily, or by force. I don’t care much which you choose but, either way, you’re going.”

He exchanged a long, hard battle of eye contact with Roy Ellisson, which ended when the latter spun on his heels and stormed off, leaving his wife to shoot one last, pleading look at her son – which Mickey turned his head to avoid – before scurrying away after her husband. Dom couldn’t help but exchange a relieved glance with Damon, who let out a long, deep breath as the Ellissons disappeared down the corridor.

“Thanks, officers,” said Jacob, tipping his imaginary hat to the police, who nodded and stepped back onto the ward. Jacob cast a glance at the ragtag band of uni students huddled together, so clearly trying not to fall apart after an experience so closely mirroring the one they’d been through not even twenty-four hours previously. 

“Right,” he said, clasping his hands together. “I think this calls for tea and biscuits all round. Follow me; I’m due a break after that palaver.”

*

It was only after they’d all spent half an hour in the staff break room, drinking unlimited tea and coffee, that Dom began to wonder about Lofty. Sacha had emailed the group just before noon with a general update on Jasmine’s condition, so if Lofty had been anywhere near as attached to the refresh button as Dom had been that morning, he would know a little bit of what was going on. Yet he wasn’t here.

“Neither’s Cameron,” Zosia pointed out when he mentioned it to her. “Maybe they think they’d be intruding if they came today.”

“I know, but –” Dom wasn’t sure he wanted to tell her that Lofty had slept in his bed last night. It felt like something he could hardly understand himself; how was Zosia supposed to get it?

“Well, you have his number, why don’t you text him?” Zosia snagged one of the few remaining biscuits from the tray Jacob had laid out for them all, and sat back in her chair to regard him with a critical eye.

Dom sighed. “Yeah, I guess,” he said, making no move to do as she suggested. Zosia angled herself forward, quick as a flash, and snatched his phone from his pocket. He tried, without any real commitment, to grab it back as she typed in his password. She spent a minute biting her lip in concentration as she tapped out a message. 

“Here you go –  _ hey Lofty, haven’t heard from you all day, is everything ok? _ ” She held out the screen for him to read. “Not that hard, was it?”

Dom left her to send it without putting up a fight. It was easier than spending hours composing a text to Lofty by himself, obsessing over his every word choice and its fifty potential subtextual meanings.

“I think we’re going to head back to college now,” said Jez a moment later, gesturing at himself, Mickey, and Damon. “Been a long day.”

“Give Jasmine our best,” said Mickey, in a small voice. 

“We will,” Zosia assured him. The trio dropped by Jacob’s office to offer their thanks, and left Dom with Morven, Zosia, and Ollie.

“How long do you think the police will be?” asked Morven. “I don’t think she’s well enough to be interviewed about it all properly. And she’ll be so upset when she finds out about Mickey’s brother.”

“Jac won’t let anything get too much for her,” said Dom, covering her hand with his. “She’ll be fine.”

Morven turned her palm over and squeezed his hand.

“Where’s Lofty?” she asked. “Cameron texted me earlier, he had to meet his mum because it was her first day off in ages, but I haven’t heard anything from Lofty.”

Dom was saved from telling her he knew as little as she did on that score by Jacob’s return to the room. 

“The police just left your friend’s room,” he said. “I shouldn’t be letting you all in at once, but as long as you don’t stay more than five minutes, you can do it just this once.”

They raced back to Jasmine’s bedside. To Dom’s surprise, Jac was holding her hand, and didn’t let go even when they all crowded in; Jasmine looked teary-eyed, and her chin wobbled as she smiled at them.

“Is everything okay?” she asked. “I heard some shouting, and the police ran off after Damon.”

“It’s all fine,” Dom assured her. “Sorted now.”

If she had been less exhausted, she would have likely pushed for more but, as things stood, she let the lack of information drop with a weak nod.

“Thank you all for staying,” she said. “Sorry I’ve not been good company.”

Jac let out a soft snort, still holding Jasmine’s hand tightly in her own.

“She should be moved down to a less intensive ward tomorrow, after midday, if all goes to plan,” she said. “I’ll ring Sacha and tell him where to send you once I know.”

They left soon after, mindful of Jacob’s words and Jasmine’s evident weariness. Morven again ducked forward to press a light kiss to Jasmine’s cheek before saying her goodbyes; Dom saw Ollie shoot Zosia a puzzled look, which Zosia appeared to ignore.

The ride back to college was quiet, Dom struggling to keep his eyes open as the bus juddered along behind a cascade of bikes heading home after work. When they were finally deposited opposite the back entrance to Christ’s, and Zosia and Ollie went off up King Street in the direction of Jesus, Morven let out a little sigh.

“I really need a shower,” she said.

Dom smiled. “Yeah, you do,” he said, earning himself an elbow to the ribs.

“You saying I smell?” she joked.

“I didn’t want to say anything, but –” He mimed holding his nose. She laughed despite herself, and Dom felt something lighten in his chest to see her happier. “I love you, Morv,” he said. She reached up on tiptoes and wound her arms around his neck. 

“Love you too,” she said. “Now I’m off to make myself stink less, and then sleep for a solid twelve hours.”

“Off you go, then!” Dom waved her away, and trudged back up to his own corridor. He found himself pausing outside Lofty’s door. Should he knock? It  _ was _ a bit weird that he’d heard nothing from Lofty all day, not even a simple one-word reply to Zosia’s text acknowledging that he was okay. 

Surely it couldn’t just be that Lofty was avoiding him out of a lingering sense of self-consciousness over sleeping in Dom’s bed? Whatever, it was a little bit awkward, Dom could freely admit it, but in the grand scheme of things, did it really matter? Jasmine was in hospital. Didn’t that trump stupid things like embarrassment?

He raised his hand and gave Lofty’s door an experimental tap. Fearing it had been too quiet to hear, he tried again, rapping his knuckles against the wood three times. He listened hard for any sound of movement from the room within, but only silence reached him. Either Lofty was keeping inhumanly still, or he wasn’t in.

Dom wondered where he was. Maybe he’d gone to visit Robyn, or even Dylan. He let himself into his own room, stripping down to his boxers and falling straight into bed. It was hardly past eight o’clock, but the day was weighing heavily on him, and he knew that his lecturers and supervisors – Jac excluded, of course – wouldn’t be keen on sanctioning another day off work when Jasmine was doing alright.

Maybe a solid twelve hours of sleep would put Dom in a better position to deal with everything, anyway. Weird as Lofty’s disappearance might be, and as much as it left a trace of concern gnawing away at the back of his mind, it would have to wait until tomorrow. 

*

It did wait until tomorrow: or, at least, it waited until just after midnight, when Dom was dragged out of a deep, dreamless sleep by an insistent hammering at his door. He flailed about under the covers, finally disentangling himself and stumbling over to the door, yanking his t-shirt from the back of the chair he’d strewn it across and tugging it over his head.

Standing in the corridor, his curls frizzy and his eyes ringed with black circles, was Lofty.

“Lofty! What are you –”

“Dom, can I – I need to – can I speak to you?”

“You are speaking to me,” Dom pointed out, leaning against the doorframe and trying not to feel self-conscious about standing there in his boxers.

“No, I mean – I know it’s late, I get it if you just – I just –”

Dom was alarmed. Nothing about this felt right; Lofty seemed frantic, a flood of words desperate to seep out from under his tongue: if he didn’t know him better, Dom might have thought he was high. 

Dom stood back and motioned for him to come in. He perched on the edge of his bed, avoiding the temptation to slip back beneath the covers. Lofty stayed standing, though it was clearly an effort for him to keep still.

“What is it, Lofty?” asked Dom. He knew he sounded less patient, less coaxing than he would like; he didn’t know how to make himself gentle enough for whatever this was. Lofty didn’t seem to notice.

“How’s Jasmine?” 

The question struck Dom as out of the blue, but he answered it all the same. “She’s doing alright. She’s awake now. They’re planning to move her to a different ward tomorrow.”

“Good, that’s – that’s good,” said Lofty, though he still seemed agitated. 

“You can’t have come here just to ask me that,” said Dom, after the silence had stretched out for too long to be entirely normal. “What’s wrong? Where have you been?”

“I was at Dylan’s,” said Lofty, choosing the least difficult question. “I needed to, well. I should have been at the hospital, but I couldn’t make myself go.”

“Why? Not because –” Dom gestured to the bed. Lofty’s cheeks pinkened, but he shook his head.

“No, no,” he said. “No, because, well. Dylan said I probably shouldn’t tell you, if I ever wanted us – but I –” He broke off, biting his lip.

“Dylan said you shouldn’t tell me?” Dom couldn’t help but feel a bit of foreboding creeping into his mind about that. What secret could sweet, kind, unassuming Lofty have that was so dark his friend warned him against telling other people about it? His mind felt like a film reel being pulled out too quickly, skipping over every imaginable scenario in staticky fast-forward.

Lofty ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, he – he’s probably right, and God, I don’t want to. But I think – I feel like I need to tell you. And I get if you hate me once you know, I really do, God knows I understand. But I just – I want to be honest with you, because you were honest with me, about Isaac, and – well, I just...”

“Lofty, you’re starting to scare me here,” said Dom, a nervous laugh bubbling in his throat as he struggled to keep his voice level. His knuckles were turning white as he clung to the duvet cover with both hands. “What are you talking about?”

Lofty closed his eyes. “The reason I disappeared today,” he said. “It wasn’t because of you, or because I didn’t care what happened to Jasmine. I do care, a lot.”

“Of course you do,” said Dom. “I never thought that was the reason.”

“You have so much faith in me,” said Lofty, shaking his head in what looked like disbelief. “You always believe the best of me.”

“You’ve never done anything to make me think otherwise,” said Dom, his confusion written all over his face. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t deserve it, Dom. Not really.” Lofty’s mouth twisted in self-deprecation. “And I get it if you don’t want to – if you don’t think I’m such a good person after I tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Dom was fast losing his patience, strung thin as it was by Lofty’s bizarre behaviour. “Tell me  _ what _ , Lofty?”

“The reason – the reason I couldn’t go to the hospital was because I couldn’t face seeing Mickey,” said Lofty in a rush. 

Dom blinked. “Mickey?” he repeated.

“Yes,” said Lofty, a faint note of strangled irritation rising at Dom’s repetition. “I couldn’t risk seeing Mickey. Because, because I’ve already had to do that once. And I couldn’t – I’m not brave enough. I’ve already had to – to face someone, a family member, after – and I couldn’t do it again, even though it’s different, I just couldn’t.”

Dom looked up, taking in Lofty’s quivering jaw, and the petrified, guilty look in his eyes, and felt utterly thrown by it all. “What are you trying to say?”

“Dom, I –” Lofty looked as if he wanted to be anywhere but in this room, with Dom in front of him, waiting. He swallowed audibly. “Three years ago, I killed someone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! So I did do a fair bit of research on stabbings, treatment, and general protocol, but I'm not a medical professional and the info I found was limited, so please forgive any inaccuracies.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dom tries to process Lofty's revelation, Jasmine gets an infection, and a media storm descends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter are also a bit spoilery, so they're in the endnotes. Please do read them if you're worried you might be affected by the details of Lofty's revelation. I decided to rework the events in canon (where Lofty accidentally electrocutes a nurse with a defibrillator, and she dies), since I found it unlikely that Lofty would have been in a situation, at the age of 21, and focusing on psychology instead of nursing, where he would have been able to accidentally kill a patient.

“What?” Dom’s voice shot up an octave, involuntarily, and he clamped his mouth shut, scanning Lofty’s face as if his expression would reveal that Dom had misheard him, or that he’d misspoken. The turn of Lofty’s lips was grim, and his skin had the same greenish tinge Dom had seen after Jasmine had been attacked. It was with a jolt like an electric shock that Dom realised this wasn’t some sick practical joke: it was real.

_I killed someone._

“Who? How? What happened?” he croaked out. Lofty looked away, his nails digging into the bare skin of his arms.

“It was just after I’d finished my A-levels,” he said. “I’d not long passed my test. I was really – really proud of it. Robyn’s older than me, but she couldn’t drive yet.” He laughed at himself; it was a bitter sound, entirely without humour. “I thought I knew it all. I followed all the rules. My driving instructor said I was the most careful driver she’d ever taught.”

Dom’s head reeled, making him feel sick, but he forced himself to remain motionless on the bed, watching every twitch of Lofty’s face.

“I was out with – with a guy I knew. He was – my girlfriend at the time, he was her brother. We’d been to a concert together, just me and him, and – it doesn’t matter, that part doesn’t matter. It was stupid. I was stupid.”

Dom shook his head, but said nothing. His stomach cramped as he gritted his teeth against the bile rising in his throat.

“No,” Lofty said, backtracking suddenly with a wild gleam in his eyes. He looked like an animal with its leg caught in a trap. “It does – I – I should tell you everything. You told me. I was – that night, I’d realised I was in love with him. That I had been for months, but I never wanted to admit it. Because that would mean, well, I was with his sister. Alice. But that night, I couldn’t pretend anymore. I was in love with him. But I didn’t tell him. He knew, we both knew, but we didn’t say anything.” He grimaced.

“The ride home was a bit strained,” he said. “There was all this pent-up tension between us, and neither of us wanted to bring it up or do anything about it, because that would mean – well, neither of us knew, it was just difficult. But I thought – I was still – I just concentrated on the road, I tried not to think about it.”

Lofty’s eyes were fixed on a point somewhere just above Dom’s head. As he spoke, his voice seemed flat, almost stripped bare of emotions. “We got to the country road that led to his house – I was staying the night. It was dark, there were no streetlights at all, just my headlights. I was doing below the speed limit, I remember seeing the dial just under forty-five. And then –”

He choked on the words. Dom’s hands had balled into fists without him realising. He waited for Lofty to go on, biting at the inside of his cheek so hard that he thought he could taste blood.

“She stepped right out in front of me from between two cars parked at the side of the road,” said Lofty, his attempt to sound like he was giving an outsider’s perspective ruined by the quavering note in his voice. “It was too quick for me – I couldn’t do anything, I slammed the brakes on and tried to swerve, but it was too late to stop it. She – she was thrown up by the car and she hit the windscreen head-first. It was –” His shoulders shook.

“God, it was – I just – the car stopped, but she was knocked back onto the road by the force of it, and – by the time I got out of the car, and Lenny had – had called for the ambulance – it was already too late. No one charged me with anything, it was, the coroner thought it was suicide, but – the family, her family. They tried to sue. My dad settled out of court with them. I couldn’t – I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

Dom stared up at Lofty, his throat burning. “Oh my God,” he said. Nothing he could ever think to say would be enough for this. “Oh my God.”

Lofty closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling heavily, as if awaiting the first shot of a firing squad. “There you go,” he said, bitterly. “You know now.”

Dom took a deep, shuddering breath. “I  – I need a minute. Just.” He looked past Lofty, fixating on a dark spot of grease on one of his blue curtains. He stared at it for what felt like hours, unable to think of anything but those words, _I killed someone_ , and Lofty’s face, looking so utterly defeated.

Lofty, who unquestioningly listened, and comforted, and cared, had told Dom the most painful secret imaginable. And now, he was just waiting for Dom to twist the knife, to reject him, and throw him out, and never speak to him again. Lofty was standing there, _expecting_ that. Dom forced himself to snap back from his own impossible, screaming thoughts. This wasn’t about him. It was about Lofty.

“Lofty,” said Dom. He found himself unable to bear that look on his face: the certainty of his own guilt. “Lofty, look at me, please.”

It took a few unwilling seconds before Lofty dropped his gaze from the wall to meet Dom’s eyes.

“Lofty, I can’t even – I don’t know what to say,” said Dom. Lofty’s lips twisted in a grim parody of a smile.

“There’s nothing you can,” he said. “You don’t have to.”

“I know, but I wish there was,” said Dom, his voice quiet.

Lofty shrugged. “It is what it is,” he said, his tone affecting a sort of nonchalance that jarred with the tears shining in the corners of his eyes. “I just have to live with it.”

Dom stretched out both hands, not quite knowing why, but wanting to pull Lofty closer. A look of confusion flitted over Lofty’s face, but he took Dom’s hands in his own anyway.

“Do you remember,” said Dom, trying to phrase his words carefully, “that night when I told you about Isaac?”

Lofty nodded. “Of course I do,” he said.

“You told me what happened wasn’t my fault,” said Dom, ignoring the way Lofty’s face shuttered over at the implication of Dom’s point. “You told me that,” he insisted. “I didn’t really believe you, at that moment, even though part of me knew you were right. Right then, I didn’t believe anyone who told me that. But I’m starting to think I do. And I get that right now, you’re going to think I’m talking shit, that I don’t know what I’m saying. It’s okay, I get it. But I don’t think it was your fault. And I hope one day you’ll be able to believe it, too.”

Lofty shook his head. “I’ll always wonder if there was something else I could have done. If I’d checked the verges properly, if I’d been driving slower, if –”

“Shh,” said Dom, using his grip on Lofty’s hands to lever himself to his feet. He drew Lofty closer, until there was almost no space between them. “That way madness lies. I’ve tried every ‘what-if’ in the book, it’s all useless. You’ll never be able to account for everything. But what happened – you did every single thing you could.”

“How could you possibly know that?” asked Lofty. They were close enough that his breath tickled the stubble along Dom’s jawline.

“Because I know you,” said Dom. It was that simple, wasn’t it?

Lofty dropped Dom’s hands and stepped back, withdrawing all at once. “I – Dom, I –”

Dom pulled up, puzzlement turning to disbelief. “Oh, Jesus, you don’t think I was trying to come on to you? Because, really, not even I –”

“No!” Lofty shook his head quickly. “No, I just...” He took a shaky breath. “Thank you. It means, well. A lot. That you’d say that.”

Dom closed his eyes in relief. “You don’t need to thank me,” he said, with a little laugh.

“I do,” said Lofty. “Can –” He bit his lip, hesitating over what he wanted to ask. “This is a weird question, considering – and you don’t have to – but I can’t – can I stay here again tonight?”

If Dom didn’t know anything about medicine, biology, or human anatomy, he would have sworn his heart flipped over in that moment. “Yes,” he said. “Yeah, of course.”

*

When Dom woke, he wasn’t quite sure what was going on. His face was pressed against a shoulder blade that wasn’t his own, and a loud musical noise that he slowly began to recognise as his phone’s ringtone was blaring from the bedside table.

He groped about for his phone, and felt the body beside him shift and groan as the noise woke him. _Lofty_ , Dom’s brain supplied, before he could panic. _It’s just Lofty._

“Hello?” Dom said; if he sounded a tad snippier than usual, it was only because it wasn’t even half-seven in the morning yet.

“Dom?” It was Morven. “Dom, sorry, did I wake you?”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Dom lied, sliding down in the bed until his head hit the pillow. He glanced over at Lofty, who had angled himself upright on his elbow, and was looking back at him with an expression Dom wasn’t even going to try to unpick. Dom tried not to dwell on how terribly _couple-like_ and domestic this set-up might seem to any outside observer. There were more pressing matters at hand. “What’s the matter, Morv?”

“It’s Jasmine,” said Morven. “Jac just called me. She’s developed an infection. She’s confused and upset, and she was asking for – asking for me.”

“Okay, do you want me to come with you?”

“Would you, Dom?” Morven’s voice sounded tight and scared down the line.

“Hey, hey,” said Dom. “Of course I will. Listen to me: she’ll be fine, alright? They’ll put her on antibiotics and she’ll be right as rain in no time.”

“Yeah,” Morven said. “Yeah.”

“Okay, give us fifteen minutes. I’ll meet you outside mine.” He hung up and rubbed at his eyes with his fists. Lofty touched his shoulder.

“Jasmine has an infection?” Lofty asked. Dom nodded.

“Will you come with me?”

Dom had been expecting Lofty to put up some resistance, given his studious avoidance of the hospital the previous day, but he looked almost relieved. “Of course,” he said.

They scrambled out of the bed and Lofty hurried back to his own room to change. They met in the bathroom, where they hastily brushed their teeth and hurried down to meet Morven. She was standing outside the far door to their building, wearing a striped pink and white top Dom recognised as belonging to Jasmine: it had a pair of cherries embroidered over the left side of the chest.

Morven raised an eyebrow at Dom on seeing that he had brought Lofty with him, but she didn’t comment, clearly too worried about Jasmine to focus on much else.

“Is she still on the ICU?” Dom asked, as they started the brisk walk to the bus station, taking a shortcut through the hidden door in second court that led to the station across a small swathe of the park just opposite the college.

“Apparently her blood pressure was too low for them to consider moving her earlier,” said Morven. “So yeah.”

Outside the ward, they were greeted by Jacob Masters, the nurse who had skilfully taken the wind out of Roy Ellison’s blustering sails the day before. He was filling in forms at the nurses’ station, but finished up quickly and came over to speak to them.

“How is she?” Morven asked.

“We’ve got her on antibiotics and painkillers,” said Jacob. “We’re working to get her blood pressure up, too. She’s getting the best care possible; she’s more than capable of getting through this pretty fast.”

Morven nodded, her top lip quivering.

“Come on, I’m due to check in on her anyway,” Jacob said to her, the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling kindly. “Why don’t you come with me and see her for yourself? She’s been asking for you, Ms Naylor says.”

Dom and Lofty were left behind at the nurses’ station. They stood around, awkward, as nurses, porters, and junior doctors bustled around them. Nobody told them to get out of the way, though, so eventually they pulled up two plastic chairs from the stack outside the store cupboard, and positioned their seats as far from the centre of the action as they could manage.

“Sorry for dragging you down here,” said Dom after a while of sitting in a strained silence that was driving him just a little bit mad in its intensity. “I don’t think there’s going to be a lot going on for a while. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s fine!” said Lofty. His brow furrowed, and he added quickly: “Unless you want me to leave, obviously.”

“No!” Dom waved a dismissive arm, rushing to assure him that he wasn’t trying to chase him out. “I just thought, if you didn’t want to hang around…”

Lofty shook his head. “It’s fine,” he said. “Honestly. I’d rather be here with you, than back in my room worrying about Jasmine anyway.”

They waited, side-by-side, for a good twenty minutes. After about fifteen of these, Lofty seemed to doze off, and his head slowly tilted until it was resting against Dom’s shoulder. Dom, who suspected Lofty hadn’t slept well after the revelations of last night, did his best to keep his shoulders still and his breathing even. They were friends, after all: friends looked out for each other, didn’t they?

Jac came striding out of Jasmine’s room a few minutes later, and rolled her eyes as she came across Dom and Lofty.

“Eugh,” she said. “What is it about the attempted murder of my sister that’s making everyone want to couple up all of a sudden?”

“Carpe diem, and all that,” Dom said, not bothering to deny her assumption, though it made his cheeks feel warm. He nudged Lofty gently. “How is she?” he said to Jac, as Lofty sat bolt upright, shaking his head to clear his evident drowsiness.

Jac shot them both an unimpressed look. “She’s stable,” she said. “Her blood pressure is still too low, but they’ve done a fresh debridement of the wound, and with any luck, the antibiotics will kick in soon.”

“Is she awake now?” asked Dom.

“Yes, but she’s confused,” said Jac. “She was happy to see the Digby girl, at any rate.” She shifted her attention minutely to Lofty. “Who’s this one, then?”

Lofty’s nose crinkled in surprise at being singled out for attention, but Dom was hardly fazed. He waved a hand between them. “This is Lofty Chiltern. Lofty, this is Jac Naylor, Jasmine’s sister.”

“Half-sister,” Jac corrected, though Dom thought this was more out of habit than anything else, given that she’d referred to herself as Jasmine’s sister barely two minutes ago.

“Hello, Ms Naylor,” Lofty offered, with a tentative smile. To Dom’s relief – and probably Jac’s, too – he didn’t offer his hand for her to shake.

Jac assessed him briskly, taking in his messy curls, the scuffed toes of his shoes, and the side of his shirt collar that was turned inside-out. She nodded once, as if confirming something to herself.

“Well, you’re probably an improvement on the last one, if only through sheer ineptitude,” she said, ignoring the baffled look that drew from Lofty. She brought a twenty pound note out of the pocket of her jeans, and handed it to Dom. “Go get me a latte with an extra shot. Get a drink for yourself and loverboy here, too. And something for the Digby girl, you’ll know what she likes better than I do.”

“Sure, thanks,” said Dom, and grabbed Lofty by the arm to pull him out of the ward before he could splutter too much about being nicknamed ‘loverboy’ by one of his cardio-thoracic idols. When they were walking down the corridor, well out of Jac’s line of sight, Dom remembered that he should probably let go of Lofty’s arm.

“What was all that about?” asked Lofty, incredulous. “Loverboy?”

Dom made a face. “She, uh, she may have assumed we were together,” he said. “Trust me, it’s easier not to argue with her.”

The little frown on Lofty’s face didn’t lift, but he let it go.

As they passed the little hospital shop, however, it was Dom’s turn to crumple in dismay.

“Shit,” he said. The newspaper stand just outside the door, displaying six national papers of varying quality, and a couple of local gazettes, was plastered with headlines about Jasmine’s injuries.

TOP HOSPITAL DOC’S SISTER, 19, STABBED IN FAR-RIGHT ATTACK, read _Cambridge News_ . _The Sun_ , ever the classiest of red-tops, had gone with ‘CARNAGE’: CAMBRIDGE STUDENT IN SHOCK NAZI STABBING. _The Daily Express_ , bless its Conservative cotton socks, had led with something about Princess Diana’s former car-washer and his opinion on Brexit, but the news had managed to make the front pages of the _Guardian_ and the _Telegraph_ , too, though in less sensationalist terms than in the tabloids.

“Oh, fuck,” said Lofty, his breath tickling Dom’s ear as he leant over Dom’s shoulder to read the front pages. They received several disapproving tuts from the little old lady volunteering at the counter.

“Jac is going to go mental,” said Dom. “Christ. How much do they know?”

“Probably no more than they’ve found out from asking the pub and the police,” said Lofty, but he didn’t sound too sure of himself. “No one from our group would speak to them, would they?”

“I doubt it,” said Dom. “Unless maybe Damon said something to a hack by mistake. I feel like that’s something he might do.” He handed the money Jac had given him to Lofty. “Will you get the drinks? I’ll skim through this lot and figure out what’s going on.”

Lofty nodded, darting off to the Costa just past the hospital chapel. Dom grabbed a copy of _Cambridge News_ , which he imagined would be the source of the nationals’ information, and starting leafing through it.

_Jasmine Burrows, 19, a first-year medical student at the University of Cambridge whose half-sister is one of Addenbrookes Hospital’s leading cardio-thoracic (CT) surgeons, was stabbed in an incident at The Regal on St Andrew’s Street on Tuesday night. Four men have been arrested on suspicion of aiding and abetting, but the assailant is believed to have been killed in a road traffic collision whilst running from the scene. Police have scheduled a press conference for Thursday afternoon, but local reports suggest that the attacker was Scott Ellisson, 27, son of far-right activist Roy Ellisson, who has been described by Cambridge’s Deputy Commissioner as an ‘extremist’ who ‘promotes and enacts racist hate speech and violent behaviour’._

There was reams more written in the same relatively dry, facts-driven vein; Dom dumped the paper back on the shelf, and picked up _The Sun_ . His heart sank as he read the first few lines of the story beneath the headline: _A bright young student at Cambridge University was fighting for her life yesterday after scenes witnesses described as ‘total carnage’ at the local student boozer…_

“Dear God,” he muttered. If Jac saw this, _The Sun_ , and whichever unnamed ‘witnesses’ had been running their mouths to the rag, would soon be learning the true meaning of the word ‘carnage’.

He wondered for a brief, mad moment if he could buy every single newspaper in the damned shop, to avoid her passing by and spotting the field day the media were having. He dismissed the thought at once; was he going to shut down the hospital WiFi too, or orchestrate a takedown of every news website in the UK? There was no way to stop her finding out: it was only a matter of time.

“Hey,” said a voice at his shoulder. Dom jerked, and turned to see Lofty precariously balancing four drinks in a cup holder, and another in the crook of his elbow. Knowing that Lofty wasn’t exactly the world’s most coordinated person, and frankly amazed that he’d got this far without any spillages, Dom made haste to take some of the coffees from him.

“Hey,” he said. “It’s not looking great. They know pretty much everything: Jasmine’s name, Scott Ellisson, everything.”

“Well, it’s only natural something like this would drum up some media interest, I suppose,” said Lofty. “It’ll blow over. It always does, eventually –” he broke off, and Dom looked up with a quick, reassuring glance to let him know that he understood, and didn’t need him to finish the sentence. Lofty nodded his gratitude, and continued: “It’s just a surprise it got to the national papers so fast. Usually, the university would be doing everything they could to keep it from getting out, wouldn’t they?”

“Yeah, but that’s stuff like drug dealing at Cindies and rich twats burning money in front of homeless men,” said Dom. “No one really cares after the first three thousand articles in _The Tab_ have said it all.”

His tone may have been caustic, but hearing Lofty’s more philosophical take on things – especially in light of his own undoubtedly horrific experience with the press after his car accident – was making Dom feel somewhat less on edge. Maybe Jac would be better prepared for the brewing media storm than he was; in fact, knowing her, she probably had her entire media strategy all planned out to the last detail.

She was standing by the nurses’ station, deep in conversation with Jacob, when they arrived back on the ward. The lines of her body were tense and the way she shuffled from foot to foot, folding and unfolding her arms, spoke to her agitation. She knew, then. Dom wordlessly held out the latte she’d ordered, and she snatched it from him to take three long gulps, her eyes still on Jacob.

“You haven’t let any of them in here? You’re sure?”

“What do you think I am?” Jacob said. “I run a tight ship. And you can have it from me, none of my staff will breathe a word to anyone out of this ward. If they do, they’ll find themselves booted down to Rheumatology faster than you can say ‘press leak’.”

Jac hummed her approval, and turned to take Morven’s drink, a caramel frappe, from Lofty, along with her change – or at least, the portion of it Lofty didn’t drop as he sifted it from his pockets. Dom tried not to let himself feel even a brief flicker of wry fondness as he bent down to help Lofty retrieve the coins rolling along the polished floor. It wasn’t the time.

“I suppose you’ve both seen the news?” said Jac, when she was finally in possession of all the money she was owed. Dom nodded. “ITV and Sky have got hold of a video filmed by an eyewitness,” said Jac, narrowing her eyes to gauge their reactions.

“Jesus,” Jacob cursed under his breath. “Do they have no decency?”

“Shit, what?” Dom said, before he could catch himself. He winced at Jac, whose expression didn’t change, and added: “I suppose someone could have been filming. But I didn’t see anyone.”

“Most people were trying to help,” said Lofty. “And it all happened so fast.”

“Well, don’t go searching it up unless you want to relive it in slow-motion,” said Jac. “I’ll try to get the Digby girl to go home till the afternoon once she’s drunk this.”

“I think you’ll find her surname’s Shreve, not Digby,” said Dom, as she turned to go. “And you might just have to start calling her Morven, sooner or later.” Jac stilled, tilting her head. He thought he saw just the faintest glimmer of amusement beneath the strained lines on her face.

“When I get the wedding invite, and no sooner,” she said, and left Dom and Lofty standing beside Jacob with their rapidly cooling coffees.

“That’s you told, then,” said Jacob, with a gruff laugh. Lofty snagged his own drink from the cup holder, and patted Dom on the shoulder.

*

Not even Jac’s iron will could wrest Morven from Jasmine’s room, but Lofty and Dom left in time to make their eleven o’clock lectures, promising they’d visit again later in the day, presuming Jasmine was up to more visitors by that point. Dom slid into the empty space on the bench beside Zosia in their lecture hall, and scrawled her a quick note explaining where he’d been, mentioning Lofty without thinking. Zosia took the pencil off him and underlined Lofty’s name twice, accompanying it with a questioning look. Dom rolled his eyes.

 _It’s a long story_ , he wrote.

 _Have you seen the email from Hanssen?_ She wrote back. _Ollie forwarded it to me._

Dom logged into his email account: he was already screwed for the day after missing his first two lectures, so why bother tuning in to this one? The email was marked ‘urgent’ and headed with the college crest, containing a dire warning from the Senior Tutor to anyone considering speaking with ‘numerous persistent figures from local and national media outlets’ about ‘the unfortunate incident involving a much-loved member of the college’.

“I don’t think it matters much now, in any case,” Dom whispered to her. “Everyone and their pet cat knows.”

She already had several news articles up in different tabs on her laptop, and was alternating between scanning them and trying to snatch up the occasional word the lecturer said in the hopes that it would translate to something meaningful in exam term.

“Jesus, there’s a _video_ ,” she said, frantically clicking off the Sky News page in disgust. Dom sighed.

“Yeah,” he said. “At least it proves to the world that the scumbag is guilty.”

They were quiet after that, thanks to the pointed glares they were attracting from many of their fellow students on nearby benches. After the lecture, they went to Starbucks for lunch. Morven sent him a text as they sat down: _Jas is ok, she’s asleep for now. Will you come by later this afternoon/evening if you’re free? xx_

As he replied in the affirmative, Dom had the distinct impression that he wasn’t going to be getting any work done at all that day, despite the fact that he had a supervision scheduled with Ric Griffin at four that afternoon.

“You should email him asking to postpone,” said Zosia, through a mouthful of her halloumi couscous.

“Show weakness in front of Ric? Not bloody likely,” said Dom. Ric was as tough as Jac, only he hated Dom more, for various reasons – most of them involving three hundred Post-it notes, a dare from Zosia, and Ric’s expensive Mercedes – that Dom really didn’t want to dwell on.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you men and your pride!” Zosia exclaimed. “You’ve had a metric shit ton of stuff to cope with these past few days. If you won’t do it, email Sacha and ask him to cancel it for you.”

“I think he’s got enough on his plate right now without acting as my personal secretary, don’t you?” said Dom, staring morosely at the remains of his prawn wrap. “I’ll just suffer through it. If I look martyred enough by the experience, Ric might just about let me off for having looked at precisely zero percent of the work. Hey, do you think I should cry? That sometimes works with Jac; she hates having to offer tissues and pretend to give a shit.”

“I thought you wanted to avoid showing weakness?” Zosia asked, raising an eyebrow and flicking a few stray bits of couscous at him.

“This is calculated weakness, designed to elicit an emotional response from the target that will eventually be of benefit to me,” said Dom, determined to make her crack. “There’s a clear difference.”

She ducked her head to shield her response with her hair, but Dom could hear her laughing, and he let his weariness go to laugh along with her. When she lifted her head, she had a look in her usually sharp eyes that was almost impossible for Dom to fully untangle: it seemed relieved, proud, bitter, and triumphant, and a dozen other things besides.

“What?” he asked, crinkling his nose at her. “Zosh, seriously, what?”

“I just –” She flapped her hand incoherently, cheeks flushing pink. “It’s really good to have you back, Dom.”

“I’ve been here all term, you realise,” he said. “Do you need to pop into Specsavers on the way back from lectures?”

She rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling, and the look didn’t leave her.

“No, you fool,” she said fondly. “You know what I really mean, don’t you?”

Dom gave her a smile, but it was tinged with a feeling less pleasant. He knew all too well what she had missed: his caustic wit, and all the general signs that he was indeed in possession of a personality, while he’d been wrapped up in Isaac. He hadn’t really even given much thought of Isaac since their clash at the Dorchester with Guy and his creepy sex-pest friend, but it was true that he had spent the rest of the term before that lingering under the cloud cast by Isaac’s presence in his life.

“I do know,” he told her. “But I suppose it’s about time to start playing a different tune, isn’t it?”

“Mm,” she said, giving him a look so suggestive it could only accurately be described as a leer. “And let me guess, given the evidence in your note to me this morning, is Lofty Chiltern the instrument you’re going to be playing it on?”

In Dom’s opinion, though sadly one not shared by the staff glowering at him from behind the counter, the prawn he lobbed at Zosia’s head was more than well-deserved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: car accident, suicide mention, trauma, referenced abuse, general medical stuff, media sensationalism.
> 
> Also, again, please take any medical details portrayed in this fic with a MASSIVE pinch of salt. I did my best to research things, but I'm not a medical professional.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jasmine makes a second start on the road to recovery, Dom's mum makes a suggestion, and Dom finally dredges up the courage to follow through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter's a little bit later than usual! I've been moving between uni and home for Easter, so it's been a bit hectic. Hope you enjoy some light relief as the slow burn train finally starts inching out of the station...

His supervision with Ric went like clockwork, if the clock in question was being repeatedly smashed by a hammer and then thrown from the top floor of a high-rise building. He staggered straight from the wreckage to the ICU, where he spent fifteen minutes talking to Morven and Jasmine, who was awake, but feverish and somewhat confused.

“Love you, Jas,” he said as he went to leave. She looked at him with glazed over eyes.

“Hm,” she said. “Where’s Morv?”

“I’m here,” Morven said, leaning over and grasping hold of Jasmine’s hand.

“I’ve got bees in my head,” said Jasmine, frowning with great concentration. “I don’t really mind, because they’re not wasps, but…”

“See you tomorrow, yeah?” said Dom, trying not to find it too funny. He slipped out, leaving them to it. He’d already cautioned Morven against staying all night; whether she took his advice was another matter.

The bus to college was late, and dusk was gathering as he walked through the courtyards to his building. It was a pretty enough scene – the pinkish tint of the sky as the sun dropped below the horizon, the rosy glow it gave the old stone buildings, the tall daffodils beginning to bloom in their beds bordering the student residences. 

He found himself strangely soothed by the sights he passed at least twice each day, and his attention wandered. It was only when he nearly veered into someone that he snapped out of it. 

“Sorry,” he muttered at the person he’d nearly bumped into, a compactly-built guy whose physique (and various items of clothing labelled ‘Trinity Boat Club’) boasted of his prowess at rowing before even his mouth could. He was holding a notepad in one hand, and what looked like a voice recorder in the other. Dom frowned.

“Oh, actually, I was hoping I’d see someone who could answer a few questions for me,” said the guy, and Dom’s worst suspicions were confirmed. 

“For you?”

“For  _ The Tab _ ,” the guy amended. “About the incident in Spoons a couple of nights ago.”

Dom’s teeth ground together, the unpleasant sensation only serving to make his blood pressure soar further. The ardent student journalist suddenly looked a bit uncomfortable, shifting his weight onto his back foot, as if ready to bolt.

“The incident,” Dom repeated flatly.

“Yeah, the stabbing, you know,” the guy said. “Were you friends with the victim?”

“She’s not fucking dead,” said Dom.

The journalist blinked, and took a step back. “Look, we’re only trying to establish a picture of how this has affected student morale,” he said.

“A girl was stabbed: draw your own fucking conclusions,” said Dom. “And piss off before I call the Porters on you.”

He stalked away, hoping that he was imagining the ‘can I quote you on that?’ he thought he heard blown past him on the breeze. He ran into Lofty coming towards their building from the opposite direction, and threw a glance over his shoulder to check that the journo had scarpered.

“ _ The Tab _ ’s sniffing for blood,” he said to Lofty. “Watch out.”

“Was it that guy who looked like he rows?” asked Lofty, frowning. Dom nodded. “I can’t believe he’s still at it – he tried to talk to me when I got back from lectures this afternoon. I thought he might have given up after me.”

“What did you say to him?”

Lofty flushed, and Dom tried valiantly to avoid thinking about how endearing he was when he was embarrassed. “I might have told him to piss off,” he mumbled.

“Snap,” said Dom. They trudged upstairs together, passing the Tutorial Office on the ground floor; Dom spotted a note on the office door reminding students about term dates. He stopped short on the stairs, and Lofty shot him a quizzical look. “God,” said Dom. “We break up for the Easter holidays a week tomorrow.”

Had the time really gone so quickly? Cambridge kept shorter terms than most universities – just over eight weeks – but the holidays still seemed to have burst onto the scene out of nowhere.

“Yeah,” said Lofty, sounding unenthusiastic. Dom tilted his head.

“When are you heading home?” he said.

“I’m not,” said Lofty, sliding his hand along the banister, not looking up. “My dad’s away, and I don’t really fancy going back anyway.”

“What about Robyn?” Dom asked, somehow unreasonably wounded by the image of Lofty left to live alone in college while he – and pretty much everyone, apart from the weirdly keen students who signed up to harass college alumni for money over the phone during the break – went home for almost a month.

“Her parents are in Australia and she’s spending the break with her boyfriend,” said Lofty, shrugging. “It’s fine, honestly,” he said, responding lightly to Dom’s spiralling distress on his behalf. “I’m used to it, I don’t mind being on my own.”

“No, but – for a month?” said Dom. “What is there to do in Cambridge without work, for a month?”

“I’ll have the tourists to keep me company,” said Lofty, his tone easy. “And I can make a start on revision for next term.” But Dom thought there was perhaps the faintest touch of wistfulness to his words, and it made his chest ache a little.

“Maybe you should join the Telephone Campaign,” he said, trying to get a rise from him. It worked: Lofty pulled a face.

“I’d rather not,” he said. “Ringing people who make more in a year than I ever will, begging them to donate money to one of the richest institutions in the country like it’s some sort of urgent charity case?”

“When you put it like that,” said Dom, who had expressed very nearly the exact same opinion to Zosia at least three times over the years, whenever she suggested it as an alternative to spending time with his parents over the Easter holidays.

As if she had been summoned by thought alone, once back in his room, he found that he had racked up four missed calls from his mother. He groaned, and dialled her number back.

“You’ve seen the news today, then, I take it?” he said when she picked up.

“Oh, Dazzle, why didn’t you _ call  _ me? I’ve been worried sick! It’s all over the BBC and whatnot. Poor Jasmine! Were you there?”

“Yeah, I was there,” said Dom. He told her everything he knew, striving for a balance between the sensationalism of the media and his natural tendency towards flippancy. His mother rarely appreciated his more facetious moments, especially in serious situations like this.

“Oh, darling,” his mum said when he was done. “It’s so horrible, I can’t get over it. And that Ellisson boy being your friend’s brother, too. How could he do that?”

“He was a vicious little bigot,” said Dom. “That’s how.”

“Poor Jasmine,” his mum sighed down the line. “How’s everyone else holding up? How are you?”

“I’m fine,” said Dom, surprised enough to find that it was more or less true; he was tired, and still a little worried about Jasmine’s condition, but he was okay. “Everyone’s coping differently – Morven won’t leave the hospital, hardly.”

“Ah, well,” his mum said. “If it was Zosia, you’d do the same.”

“Yeah,” said Dom. “I guess so.”

“And you said Lofty was there, too?” his mum pressed. “I thought you didn’t see him much anymore.”

“No, well, that’s – changed a bit since I last saw you,” said Dom, bracing himself. His mother gave a shrill little cry that made his ears ring. He winced. “Calm down, Mum, I’m not getting married.”

“Well, I’m just pleased for you that you’re friends again, love,” she said. “You like him, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mum, as it happens, I do,” said Dom. “He’s a good friend.”

“Just a friend?” she asked. He heaved a sigh down the phone, loud enough for her to hear.

“ _ Yes _ , Mum,” he said. “A friend. And if anything ever changes on that score, which it really won’t, I promise you you’ll be the first to know.”

“I blooming well doubt that,” she said. “Given that your friend got stabbed and you didn’t even think to give me a text.”

Dom rolled his eyes, and hoped that his tone conveyed the sentiment. “Sorry, but it did all leave me a bit preoccupied there for a bit, Mother.”

“No need to be sarky with me!” she said. “It’s alright. So, when are you coming home, then? Term finishes next week, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, I just realised that when I was talking to Lofty before,” said Dom. “I think I’ll come home on the Sunday, if everything’s okay with Jasmine by then.” 

“When’s Lofty going home?”

“He isn’t,” said Dom. “He’s staying in college. He doesn’t really have anywhere else to go, I don’t think.”

“What?” his mum sounded aghast. “He can’t stay there all by himself for a month!”

“That’s what I said,” said Dom. “But he says he doesn’t mind.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous! Why don’t you invite him to stay with us?”

Dom’s jaw fell open. Of all the unpredictable things his mother had ever said or done, this took the biscuit for him. “What?”

“You heard, Dazzle. Invite him to stay, for a week or two at least. He can’t just – just  _ languish _ there in college all on his own!”

“Languish?” Dom laughed. “He isn’t a fairy tale maiden locked in a tower without a door, Mum.”

“Ask him, Darren. Will you at least just ask him?”

“What about Dad?” Dom said. “Is he going to be thrilled at the idea of me bringing a boy home? Not,” he added hastily, “that it’s like that, but if he thinks it is.”

“Oh, your dad’ll get over it!” his mum trilled. “Remember our new neighbours, Graeme and Ed? Well, your dad’s out back right now, exchanging gardening tips with them over the hedge.”

Dom grimaced. “Brings a whole new meaning to ‘not in my backyard’,” he said. “Ugh, fine, I’ll ask him. But I’m not going to pester him about it, Mum. If he says no, he says no. God knows why anyone would want to spend a minute longer in our house than they had to.”

“Oi, you,” his mum said. “You know you’re old enough to move out if you’d prefer!”

“But then who would Dad have around to get offended by all the outdated, inaccurate rubbish he comes out with?” asked Dom.

“You are a card, Darren, I’ll give you that,” his mother sighed. “But don’t you forget to ask, now.”

“I won’t,” said Dom, not letting himself imagine what would happen if Lofty accepted the offer. “I’ll ask.”

*

It was Sunday evening before Dom plucked up the courage to pop the question, such as it was. 

Jasmine was recovering well from her infection, though she was still taking a course of antibiotics. She was moved on Saturday afternoon to a quiet part of the Major Trauma Unit for observation, and – at Jac’s insistence – placed under the care of Bernie Wolfe. 

Dom, on exchanging a few pleasantries with the intense, blonde-bobbed woman with deep bags under her eyes and a slightly frazzled air, discovered that she was actually all the more impressive for existing outside of whispered rumours of her brilliance. Fletch, who had the uncommon gift of making seriously ill people laugh until their stitches were in danger of popping, was also on the ward, and said a cheery hello to Dom whenever he passed by.

Dom was visiting Jasmine in her room on her new ward that Sunday when he brought up the conversation he’d had with his mother about Lofty. Jasmine’s eyes went as wide as those of the huge pink teddy Zosia had bought her the previous week; it had finally been liberated from Jac’s office and placed on top of Jasmine’s cupboard, where it took up every available inch of space and stared out in baleful, googly-eyed silence at everyone who entered the ward.

“What?” said Dom.

“Did you – this is going to sound weird, but did tell me something about Lofty while I was asleep?” Jasmine asked. “While I was out cold after what happened, I mean?”

“Um,” said Dom. He really hadn’t counted on her recalling any of the sense of his blathering, though he had thought she might have some hazy recollections of people talking to her. Jasmine’s eyes lit up in triumph at his reticence.

“You did!” she crowed. “He – you said you slept together?”

“Yeah, not like that, though,” said Dom, before she could get any wild ideas. “We  _ just  _ slept.”

A smile crept onto Jasmine’s face. “You really like him,” she said.

Dom didn’t answer that. “I don’t know what he’d make of my parents, even if he did want to stay.”

“Your mum’s adorable, and your dad probably won’t say anything too awful in front of someone he barely knows, right?” said Jasmine. “Just keep them apart as much as possible. But it’s not really your parents you’re worried about, is it? You don’t want to ask him because you’re scared of what might happen if he agrees.”

“Yes, that’s what I’m telling you,” said Dom. “And it _ is  _ because of my parents. I don’t want him to find out how incredibly weird and fucked-up my family really is.”

“No, it’s not that,” she said. “Or at least, that’s not all of it. Dom, don’t be stupid about it. You’re scared it’s going too far, and he won’t feel the same.”

Dom paused. He couldn’t really deny it, when it was put so bluntly. How Jasmine had suddenly acquired the gift of sifting all his fears from his brain and laying them out on the table for him to see, he would never know. He shrugged, as much of a concession as he was willing to offer. 

Jasmine’s face softened, and she reached across the bed to touch his hand, making the machine hooked up to her blood pressure monitor beep at her.

“Talk to him,” she said. Dom shook his head.

“We’ve done the talking bit,” said Dom. “He’s not interested in me, not like that. We’re friends.”

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, Dom.”

“It’s fine,” he said, his voice a bit tight. “I know the score.”

“But you still want to be with him?”

Dom sighed, pressing back against the swirl of feelings rising from behind the wall of defiant ignorance he was trying to construct in his brain. It couldn’t happen, so there was no point indulging the thoughts.

“I’m trying not to think about it,” he said. “There’s no point raking it all up. But inviting him to my house seems like a step in the opposite direction.”

Jasmine squeezed his hand. “It’s up to you,” she said. “He might not even say yes, if he’s so happy with his own company.”

“That’s what I’m counting on,” said Dom, and cast about for a change of subject. “Have they told you when you’ll be discharged, yet?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Not really. Ms Wolfe said I’m making good progress, but she wants me to have some physio sessions in place before I go. I’ve not got much feeling in my left hip at the moment, so she’s worried it might be nerve damage. No uni football team for me this year, by the looks of it.”

Dom frowned; that didn’t sound too good. Jasmine loved playing football, and he doubted she’d actually processed what the loss of mobility would mean in practical terms, even if it was just short-term. He didn’t like to comment, though, in case he made Jasmine unhappier. Besides, he wasn’t an actual doctor, was he? What did he know? It was better for her to stay positive and look forward to getting out of hospital. 

“What does Jac say about it?” he asked.

“She says I should come and live her with over the holidays,” said Jasmine. Dom blinked.

“Really?” he said. “Oh my God, what did you say?”

“I said I’d like to,” said Jasmine, but something was clearly playing on her mind. Dom waited, until she finally burst out: “I just wish… I wish it hadn’t taken me getting stabbed for her to want me in her life.”

Dom shook his head. “She already cared about you,” he said. “She couldn’t have just turned those feelings on the second you got hurt, could she? Not even Jac is wired that way. What happened was just – well, just think of it as being a wake-up call that told her to stop being emotionally constipated and actually  _ show _ you she gives a shit.”

“That’s a terrible pun,” Jasmine gave him a watery smile, shaking her head in mock disapproval. “Thanks. I wonder how long it’ll take of living in the same house before we’re at each other’s throats?”

“I give it half an hour, max,” said Dom, smiling sweetly at her. “Have fun. And don’t forget to message us all every time she does anything even the slightest bit weird.”

When he got back to college, he went up to the library to return the textbooks he’d been using for his bioinformatics lab sessions; the last one of the term had taken place on Friday, and he needed to give the books back before he incurred a hefty fine. He was checking them back in on one of the self-service machine when Lofty fell through the door to the library, a stack of hardbacks in his arms. 

He was just about keeping them balanced under his chin, but Dom automatically leapt forward to take some of the load anyway.

“Thanks,” said Lofty, sweeping his hair out of his eyes and smiling warmly at Dom, whose stomach most certainly did _ not  _ flip a full three hundred and sixty degrees at the sight of Lofty looking dishevelled, slightly breathless, and happy to see Dom.

“No problem,” he mumbled, and helped Lofty out by checking some of the books in on the other self-service machine. The books all had titles like  _ Clinical Reasoning in the Health Professions _ and  _ Writing at the Margin: Discourse Between Anthropology and Medicine _ .

“Wow,” Dom commented. “These look pretty deep.”

“Most of it is just common sense that’s written in such complicated language that no one can understand it,” said Lofty. “That’s what most philosophy is, if you ask me.”

“And yet you took Philosophy of Medicine anyway?” teased Dom, stacking the returned books onto the trolley. Lofty laughed in self-deprecation.

“I guess I enjoy being constantly confused,” he said. “Did you see Jasmine today?”

“Yeah, just got back,” said Dom. “She seems a lot better.”

“Good,” said Lofty. “If she’s still in hospital by the time term ends, I’ll make sure to pop in and see her once everyone’s gone home.”

“Oh,” said Dom, sensing that the moment for asking had come, but feeling that it had come far too quickly for him to think about how best to carry it out. “I was meaning to ask you something about that.”

“Oh? What’s that?” Lofty turned to him with an open smile. Dom let it fill him with courage, and went on.

“Well, I was thinking – I know you said you don’t mind being in college alone, but, if you wanted, you’d be more than welcome – would you like to stay at mine for a week or two?” Dom was painfully aware that his face was already the approximate colour of mashed beetroot. He clasped his hands together anxiously, not sure what reply he was hoping for. 

Lofty looked genuinely taken aback. His mouth fell open into a little ‘o’ of surprise, and he cleared his throat before saying: “Oh, I – well, that’s really – but I wouldn’t want to impose…”

“You wouldn’t be,” Dom found himself saying, despite his former resolution to let Lofty’s first answer stand. “Really: my mum loves guests, it gives her an excuse to bake. Obviously, you don’t have to come, I just thought, if you’d like, well – it’d be nice to have someone other than my parents to talk to. They’re pretty exhausting, honestly. I know I’m not really selling it, but...”

Dom trailed off. Lofty smiled at him, looking a bit perplexed. Dom thought the proposition had been straightforward enough, despite his waffling. He decided to smile back, not sure whether to feel hopeful or apprehensive about the prospect of Lofty accepting the offer.

“Are you sure it wouldn’t a bother for you or your parents?” Lofty asked. “Truly? And you’re not just asking because you feel sorry for me? Because, really, you don’t need to.”

Dom shook his head, the worry in Lofty’s voice compelling him to tell the truth. “No. I’d like you to stay, if you want to,” he said. Then, hesitatingly: “Does that mean you’ll come?”

“Yeah, I – okay, I’ll come. Thank you,” said Lofty in a soft voice.

Dom looked at him full-on – at his eyes shining with earnest gratitude, his beautiful curls already falling straight back into his eyes, even the little blue ink stain on the collar of his cream shirt – and the only thought that cut through the vague, tangled mess in his brain was:  _ Oh fuck _ .

*

The last day of term rushed up quickly after that; just after eight on Thursday evening, Dom joined Zosia, Ollie, and Morven in sneaking onto the Major Trauma ward, where Fletch was beginning a night shift. 

He raised an eyebrow at the unlabelled pop bottles filled with dubious liquid that they’d stuffed into various carrier bags, along with several large Dominos boxes smelling of dough and melted cheese, but he turned away to answer a patient’s alarm call without asking them any awkward questions.

In Jasmine’s room, she was sitting on the armchair beside her bed, wearing a pair of pink flannel pyjamas. She lit up with a grin at the sight of pizza; she had quickly discovered just how much she hated hospital food, and had made sure that she informed everyone who visited her of her loathing for it.

She reached forward to lift up one of the lids of the boxes, and snatched up a slice of Hot and Spicy pizza like a woman who hadn’t eaten for days.

“What? They made me eat my third pork pie salad of the week this afternoon. Let’s get this party started,” she said, through a mouth full of pizza.

They talked, laughed, and drank – Morven insisting Jasmine stuck to plain coke – for nearly two and a half hours before Fletch stuck his head into the room.

“You lot are going to be the death of me, I swear,” he said, taking in the sight of Morven lying on the bed on Jasmine’s good side, and Zosia sprawled across Dom in Jasmine’s armchair, drunkenly balancing over the arm of the chair to whisper in Ollie’s ear as he sat cross-legged on the floor. 

Dom, who had for once tried to keep his drinking at a sensible level in order to shepherd the rest of them home on the night bus, shot Fletch a look of innocence that he thought was almost certainly belied by the heady scent of booze and greasy takeaway food that had saturated the room.

Fletch rolled his eyes to the heavens. “I want you out of here before eleven,” he said. “Else the ward sister’ll have my guts for garters. And you, lady,” he said, pointing at Jasmine, “have a big day tomorrow, given that you’re being discharged at midday. You need your rest.”

“We’ll leave everything as we found it,” Dom promised.

“And I’ll get my eight hours’,” Jasmine said cheerfully. “If your ward sister doesn’t keep barging in here all night to fuss with the blood pressure monitor, that is.” 

Fletch smartly ignored that, instead tracking the pizza boxes with some interest.

“You wouldn’t happen, by any chance, to have some of that left over for a hungry senior nurse who’s got a twelve-hour shift ahead of him and has so kindly let you all cause havoc on his ward for hours on end?”

Dom wordlessly handed over the cooling remains of their Texas BBQ pizza.

“You’re a legend, mate,” said Fletch, wolfing down the two slices in four gulps and wagging a finger at them. “Remember what I said, though: old Muggins here might be a soft touch, but the ward sister won’t be so easily bought with a few cold leftovers!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have no idea how likely it is that Jasmine would remember such clear details from Dom talking to her while she was sedated, but hey, creative license. Most of Jasmine's experiences (apart from the actual stab-wound treatment stuff) are based off my observations of relatives being in hospital. Hospital food truly is AWFUL. 
> 
> Also, _The Tab_ is a real student online news site - it's actually a national franchise operating in several different UK unis, and has a reputation as a somewhat sensationalist publication... not always the case, and I know many lovely student journalists who write for _The Tab_ , but sometimes, as with many forms of media, it can go straight for the lowest common denominator.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dom brings Lofty home, struggles to deal with his father's personality transplant, and has a decision to make in the middle of the night that could change everything... or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, warnings this chapter for emetophobia (in the first couple of paragraphs - Zosia is sick from the previous chapter's drinking), difficult father/son relationships, abuse references, homophobia (referenced, in the past), and nightmares.

“Urgh,” Zosia moaned.

Well: ‘urgh’ was not really an accurate transcription of the precise nature of the abject misery emanating from Zosia at that moment, but since Dom felt that capturing the true nuances of such a sound was nigh-on impossible, ‘urgh’ would have to do.

She was sitting opposite him and Lofty, with Ollie beside her, and had her head almost fully inside an M&S Bag for Life that she’d bought – without any accompanying items – before their train set out for Peterborough, where she was staying at Ollie’s house, and Dom and Lofty were changing trains. Ollie was also looking a little peaky, but had so far managed to forestall the contents of his stomach from making an appearance outside of his body.

Dom looked at them both with the satisfaction of a man who was finding that he enjoyed, for once, not being the drunken or hungover mess who needed looking after. Lofty was grimacing in sympathy with Zosia, who was unable to fully appreciate the emotional support, given that she had chosen that moment to begin retching into the bag again.

Two people sitting opposite them, who had patiently sat through the first bout of retching and throwing up, now shifted uncomfortably in their seats. After a few protracted seconds where Zosia made a noise a bit like what Dom imagined it might sound like if a blue whale were to enthusiastically hump a speedboat, the couple stood and edged out of the carriage.

Ollie patted Zosia on the shoulder, and she whimpered.

“Never. Never. Never let me drink again,” she said, looking up at them fiercely. “Do you hear me?”

“We hear you,” said Dom, trying not to let his amusement bleed through in case she remembered it next time he was in such a state. Still, a little bit of teasing was surely in order. “We just don’t believe you.”

Zosia flipped him off, and ducked her head back into the bag.

When they arrived in at Peterborough, fifty minutes later, Zosia was dozing on Ollie’s shoulder – the offending M&S bag having been wedged between Zosia and the window. Ollie kept shooting Dom and Lofty long-suffering looks that Dom wasn’t inclined to respond to with anything other than unbridled mirth. Ollie shook Zosia’s shoulder and carefully removed the bag from beneath her elbow; as they all struggled off the train, Ollie and Dom shouldering Zosia’s luggage between them, they dumped the bag in the bin liner attached to the toilet door of the train. Dom just about managed to spare a pitying thought for the cleaner who happened to stumble upon that particular parting gift.

On the Peterborough platform in the cool air, Zosia began to look a bit less like a grim omen of death, and marginally more like a living, breathing woman.

“Can we get lunch?” she asked. Ollie gave her an alarmed look.

“Is that a good idea?”

“Need to line my stomach,” she ground out through gritted teeth. Ollie held up his hands in surrender.

“Okay, okay, we’ll go to that café on the front.” He shot a look at Lofty and Dom. “Are you sure you don’t want to join us for food?”

Dom gave him a shit-eating grin. “Much as we’d love to, I think we’d better part here if we want to catch the next train to Lincoln.” He gave Zosia a ginger hug, and she groaned into his shoulder.

“I’ll Facetime you when I’ve recovered,” she said. “Love you lots.”

“Love you, too,” he said, and watched Ollie half-drag her away to the little café on the main concourse.

“We’re on Platform Four, I think,” said Dom, checking his phone to confirm it. “Yep. It’s leaving in ten minutes.”

On the train bound for home, Dom reflected on how pleasant it was to be sharing the confined space with someone who wasn’t throwing up in a plastic bag. Of course, this meant that he actually had to deal with being in Lofty’s presence, with the full knowledge that this was only the first day of at least seven.

“So Jasmine’s getting out of hospital today?” said Lofty, as they rolled out of the station.

“Yeah, though she’ll still need a wheelchair to get around for at least a bit. Jac texted me half an hour ago to say she’s picked her up,” said Dom, making a face at his phone. “It’s so weird that she has my number now.”

“Don’t ever let your friends loose on your phone while any of you are drunk,” said Lofty with a smile. “The possibilities for prank calls are endless.”

“Please don’t ever say that in front of Zosia! The results would be too horrific for words.”

They fell into a silence that was easy enough. Dom dwelt mainly on the way that the weak noonday sun through the fly-stained window made Lofty’s brown eyes glint with softer shades. He was being ridiculous, he knew, and it really had to stop. But still, he couldn’t help but sneak covert glimpses as he pretended to be engrossed in a game on his phone.

Lofty, for his part, mostly stared out of the window at the mix of rural landscape and industrial towns that flew by as the train sped north. Once, when Dom glanced up from his phone, Lofty was looking directly at him. He smiled, oddly embarrassed despite the fact that it hadn’t been him caught staring, and averted his eyes.

When they stepped through the ticket barriers at Lincoln Central, Dom’s mum was already waiting on a bench. She leapt up when she saw them and rushed over to envelope Dom in a crushing hug.

“Oh, Darren, it’s so good to see you!”

“Yeah, yeah, you too, Mum,” said Dom, trying to extricate himself from her vice-like grip. “This is –”

“Oh, so you’re Lofty!” she exclaimed. “It’s lovely to finally meet you, sweetheart.”

“You too, Mrs Copeland,” said Lofty, shifting his rucksack on his back. She waved a hand.

“Carole, please,” she said. “Now, I hope you don’t hate vegetarian food, Lofty.”

Lofty shook his head. Dom narrowed his eyes.

“Vegetarian food? In Barry Copeland’s house?”

“Well, not exactly inside the house, Dazzle,” said his mum as they walked to the car park, breezily oblivious to the glare Dom shot her at the use of his oldest nickname. “Your Dad was actually the one who planned it all – he invited Graeme and Ed from next door round for a barbecue, and they’re both veggies, you see.”

“He invited Graeme and Ed round?” Dom frowned as he slung his bags into the boot of the car. “Since when has Dad been all neighbourly?”

“He likes them, love, what can I say? Graeme helped him fix a problem with the drainage last week, and he just wanted to say thank you. He’s been Googling recipes with tofu and falafel non-stop ever since.”

“You’re telling me that Dad’s been cured of his homophobia, not by interacting with me, his actual gay son, but by barbecuing tofu with Graeme and Ed from next door?”

“Well, he sees a lot less of you these days than those two,” said his mum, narrowly avoiding scraping the car against a bollard as she pulled out of the station car park and set off down the road. “And he’s started following that lesbian weathergirl and Christopher Biggins on Twitter, you know. I think it’s given him a new perspective on things.”

“Dad uses Twitter?” Dom all but yelped. “Who is this impostor and what has he done with my father?”

“He has changed quite a bit these past few months, Darren,” she said. “You’ll see for yourself once we’re home. So, Lofty, you study Medicine like our Dazzle here, too, do you?”

*

Bewilderment was Dom’s reigning emotion as he sat on a rickety garden chair next to Lofty, watching his father bicker good-humouredly with their gay next-door neighbours about whether halloumi had been a thing in the eighties.

“This is like the Body Snatchers,” Dom hissed to Lofty, whose lips twitched. He lifted his glass of juice to his mouth to cover his amusement.

“Darren, had you ever heard of halloumi before this moment?” his dad bellowed. Dom sighed.

“Yes, Dad,” he said. “Only because Zosia’s a vegetarian, though.”

“What about falafel?”

“Yes, that too.”

“Well, it’s all new-fangled to an old fogey like me,” said his dad, turning back to Graeme and Ed, who looked generally comfortable and mildly indulgent. “But I did find I quite liked them Linda McCartney sausages you gave us in that Easter hamper: very good of you, that.”

“You’re quite welcome, Barry,” said Ed, who was short, dark, and stocky with a thick Scottish accent, wearing red and black plaid that gave him the air of a lumberjack.

“We’ve been making a lot of use of the cookbook you got us,” Graeme, who was a much taller man with vibrant red hair and a somewhat less intense Scottish accent, added.

“Ah, I’ll have to give her indoors due credit for that, I’m afraid – I’m not one for buying presents and all that, I never know what to get.”

Despite the lamentably sexist epithet, Dom could hardly believe his ears. Was that his father giving his mother credit for something, and apologising for his own deficiencies? Who’d have thought the day would ever come?

His mum appeared shortly after with a six-pack of lager shandies; she had changed into a pretty blue sundress Dom hadn’t seen before.

“Wow, Mum,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“What?” she asked.

“You look nice,” he said, and watched her colour with surprised pleasure.

“Doesn’t she just?” boomed his dad, leaving Ed in charge of grilling the tofu burgers and taking hold of his mum’s hand, twirling her around. She giggled and reached up on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek; Dom gaped.

“Your parents seem really sweet,” said Lofty in a low voice.

“Yeah,” said Dom. “Terrifying, isn’t it?”

He wasn’t quite sure when this apparently momentous change had happened. Over the course of the meal, which was a mild, almost balmy spring evening to spend on the patio, Dom found himself thinking back to the Christmas holidays: the last time he’d been home, only a few weeks after ending things with Isaac.

Sure, he remembered spending a lot of time locked away in his room, but he didn’t think he would have missed such a drastic shift in his dad’s behaviour. Or maybe he really hadn’t been paying attention, while his dad had been changing right beneath his nose.

Given the alarm such unusual displays from his dad roused in him, Dom couldn’t help but feel just a tad sceptical, even as he noticed how genuinely happy his mum seemed, laughing at a comment Barry was making in response to a work story Graeme had related.

The little gathering broke up around half-nine, with Graeme and Ed retiring to their own house with promises of bringing more spicy falafel recipes for Carole to try during the week. Dom, his parents, and Lofty moved in to the living room, where Dom’s dad seemed to decide it was time to begin some sort of formal interrogation of the man his son had seen fit to bring home.

“So, Ben, is it?”

“Yes, Mr Copeland,” said Lofty, wisely – in Dom’s opinion – bypassing the need to explain his nickname.

“Barry,” said Dom’s dad, gesturing to himself. “So, what are you studying?”

“Medicine, like Dom,” said Lofty. “I take philosophy and psychology modules.”

Dom scrutinised his father’s face, but saw little animosity written on it.

“Ah, you’re interested in the brain and all that, then?” he said.

“Yes, I suppose you could say that,” said Lofty diplomatically.

“And what do you hope to do with it all, when you’re done and dusted?”

“Uh, well, I suppose I’d – quite like to be – well, some sort of counsellor or psychologist,” said Lofty, glancing sideways at Dom, who tried to look encouraging. He could have guessed at Lofty’s ambitions, but he’d never actually confided them to him before.

“Right,” said Dom’s dad. Dom waited for the scepticism, but his father surprised him once again. “I was reading about all that in the paper the other day, you know. Great work some of those people do, great work. You seem like a good influence on our Darren, here,” he said.

Lofty gave a little start, and tried to smile. “I’m – thank you?”

Dom snorted. “And I’m a terrible influence on him.”

His dad finally turned to look at him properly. Dom held his gaze, a challenge he couldn’t quite articulate to himself rising to the surface and presenting itself to this strange new version of the man he’d known all his life.

“Well, no one can be good twenty-four seven, can they?” said his father, with a chuckle. “Maybe you’re teaching Ben here to cut loose a bit.”

“Maybe,” said Dom, raising his eyebrows at Lofty, whose cheeks were turning a little red.

“So,” said his father. “What do you make of Graeme and Ed, then? You didn’t see them at Christmas, did you?”

“No,” said Dom shortly. “They seem perfectly nice, I suppose. You like them?”

“Cracking blokes!” said his dad. “Absolutely top notch, they are. It’s good when a man can be friendly with his neighbours. God knows I haven’t spoken to the Wilsons on the other side of us since we moved in seventeen years ago! That Graeme’s a good lad, you know, he was helping me just the other week with the drainage on the house.”

“So I heard,” said Dom. “And I also heard you’re on Twitter now.”

“Oh, your mother’s been telling you all about it, has she?” his dad laughed. “Yes, Ed helped me set it all up when your mum invited him in for tea, actually. He works in computers; he knows all about those technological doo-dahs.”

“Wow,” said Dom, more than faintly relieved when his mother came in. Until she opened her mouth, that was.

“So, Lofty, I’ve made up the spare room for you and put your bags down in there, but of course, if you two are sharing, then I can move them to Dom’s room, it’s no trouble at all.”

“No, Mum, it’s not – we’re not –” Dom spluttered out in disbelief that she would bring this up right now when he’d already told her nothing was going on between him and Lofty. He couldn’t help but look to his father as he spoke, trying to measure the limits of his newfound tolerance. He didn’t dare try to catch Lofty’s reaction.

“Oh, I just mean that, whatever the two of you want to do, you’re both adults, it’s fine by us,” she said. “Isn’t it, Barry?”

His dad’s face had turned roughly the colour of a smashed tomato, but he nodded stiffly. “Yes,” he said. “Carole’s right, Ben. Or is it Lofty?”

“Whichever you prefer, Mr Copeland,” said Lofty, who seemed to be suffering a similar level of embarrassment to Dom and his father. “Um. Thank you.”

“Well, we’ll leave all that for now, then!” Dom’s mother said, clapping her hands together. “Now, your father and I have a date with _Poldark_ on iPlayer. You’re welcome to join us, of course, but I suppose you’d rather not hang out with your old parents all night, would you?”

“Wouldn’t want to crash your _date_ ,” said Dom, taking the opportunity to bolt out of his chair; Lofty was hot on his heels, so he assumed he wasn’t exactly dragging him kicking and screaming from the prospect of an hour watching Aidan Turner’s rippling biceps against a backdrop of Cornish coastal views. “Night!”

“Night, Carole, good night Mr Co – Barry,” he heard Lofty say behind him.

Dom’s room was much the same as always: his mother had clearly been in to dust and hoover before his arrival, but she’d left his bookshelves and the clutter on the chest of drawers beneath the window intact.

Lofty gave the room a sweeping glance, his eyes lingering on the faded Freddie Mercury poster taped to Dom’s wardrobe and coming to rest on the framed photo of Zosia and Dom from their first year. It had been taken by Arthur, an artful picture of the two of them beneath the blooming wisteria in a Jesus College courtyard, laughing at each other with gleeful, crinkling eyes as the camera snapped its shot.

Dom waited for Lofty to comment, but he didn’t. They sat down on opposite ends of the bed, Lofty with one foot on the floor and the other tucked beneath him, Dom with his legs crossed, feeling like he still had something to apologise for.

“Sorry about my mum just now,” he said. “She gets ideas in her head that I can’t get rid of, sometimes. She does know –” he waved a hand inarticulately, not wanting to continue that line of thinking.

Lofty shook his head. “It’s fine,” he said. “She’s lovely. And your dad seems to be – trying?”

“Yeah,” said Dom. “Trying is the word.”

Lofty’s lips quirked at Dom’s twist of meaning. “Yeah, my dad’s not the easiest to deal with, either. But I suppose people can change, can’t they?”

“Some of them,” said Dom, thinking about his own changes through the years. He liked to hope he was a marginally better person now than he’d been four or five years ago. “Doesn’t mean anyone has to forget what they’ve already done.”

“No,” said Lofty. “They don’t.”

“I do want to give him the benefit of the doubt,” said Dom. He wasn’t sure if this was entirely true, so he rephrased. “I wish I could. But all my life, he’s acted like I wasn’t good enough. When I came out to him, he didn’t speak to me for a week. No shouting, no threats. Nothing. It was almost worse than if he’d just told me how disgusting he thought I was.”

“Did he ever talk to you about it?” asked Lofty.

Dom shrugged. “Not really. He ignored it completely until I got a boyfriend. Then he just made snide comments to mum when he thought I couldn’t hear, and made it pretty clear he didn’t want him round the house. Before I went to uni, he told me he thought I’d be better off finding a nice girl to settle down with while I was away.”

Lofty’s indignant frown almost made up for the sour taste that particular memory left in Dom’s throat. “That’s ridiculous!”

“Tell me about it,” said Dom. “Actually, though, when I started going out with Isaac, in the first few weeks before everything turned – well, you know – we met up with my mum and dad in Cambridge for a meal. My dad seemed to get on with him. He actually shook his hand before they left, and said…” Dom swallowed down the hurt he’d never quite acknowledged until that precise moment. “He said, ‘I can see you’re going look after our Darren’.”

“Oh,” said Lofty. His eyes were wide and pained, and he reached forward as if he was going to touch Dom’s knee, before seeming to think better of it. Dom wished he had bridged the gap; he knew it was stupid to feel emotionally vulnerable when he’d already shared so much of his past with Lofty, but there it was. Part of him wished he could just shut up, scrub the slate clean, and start over.

“Yeah,” he said, instead. “But I’m sure he feels awful about it now, or whatever. He barely said a word to me over Christmas, though.”

“Maybe he needed time to think,” Lofty suggested. “To decide what sort of dad he wants to be.”

“Maybe,” Dom echoed. He didn’t say, _but he shouldn’t have needed time to become a decent father. I needed him then._ It wasn’t true, really, in any case. He hadn’t needed his father in the end; he’d pushed through it without him. And if his father was now having second thoughts about his previous parenting skills, or lack thereof, who was Dom to begrudge him a change of heart? Better late than never, or something like that.

*

The next day, Dom took Lofty on a guided tour of Lincoln. Beyond passing through it on his way home each term, he hardly spent any time in the city himself anymore, and he found it a pleasant surprise to rediscover the huge Gothic spires and intricate stained-glass windows of the cathedral, and the Norman castle with its original copy of the Magna Carta in a subterranean vault.

Lofty seemed enraptured with it all, taking everything in with careful, studious interest, as if he were trying to absorb every detail for future consideration. By the end of the day, Dom found that he was invariably spending as much time watching Lofty look at things as he was actually looking at them himself.

In the vestry of the cathedral, Dom heard the jangle of coins hitting the bottom of a donation box, and turned to see that Lofty had lit a single candle. He looked away, pretending to be engrossed in the funerary carvings honouring some minor Lincolnshire noblewoman or other. He didn’t want Lofty to know that he had seen, and that he thought he understood.

He wondered whether he should light a candle for Arthur, but shook the thought off easily – neither he nor Arthur were ever religious, and he doubted it could hold much meaning for either of them. But he could see that, for Lofty, there was something significant in the act of leaving behind a tangible, burning reminder.

At the castle shop, Dom expressed an admiration for the various bits of artwork on sale – there was a pretty bauble with stained glass that seemed to almost glow with light from its hollow inside. He also found his attention snagged by a five-hundred-piece jigsaw that promised to reveal a photograph of the castle and its surrounding area.

“Me and my mum used to love doing jigsaws like that together,” he said in answer to Lofty’s querying glance. “We did the Houses of Parliament, London Bridge, everything we could find. Well, I loved doing them. I think she was just humouring me.”

Lofty smiled. “She probably loved to see you excited about it.”

Dom couldn’t help but smile back. “Maybe,” he said. He occupied himself looking at the architecture and local history books while Lofty went up to the till with a few souvenirs for Robyn and Dylan. Dom debated the merits of buying a book of Lincolnshire ghost stories for Zosia, who hated both the county she’d been forced to move to by her father as a wayward teenager, and any genre of literature that wasn’t fantasy or sci-fi.

When he and Lofty returned to the house that evening, Lofty went upstairs to drop off his bags from the castle shop, and to change his shirt before dinner; he had managed to spill tomato soup down his front at lunch in the cathedral café. Dom wandered into the living room, and immediately wished he hadn’t. His father was sitting in front of the television, watching a re-run of _Only Fools and Horses_. He muted the sound when he saw Dom in the doorway.

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” said Dom, the words coming out frostier than he was intending. His father watched him from the sofa, reclining against the plush cushions.

“’S’alright,” he said. “Seen it a hundred times, anyway.”

Dom looked at the screen: it was the episode where Del Boy and Rodney went to Margate. He could remember sitting with his parents, probably about ten or more years ago now, before too many of the cracks between them had turned into chasms, all of them laughing themselves sick over the scene where the coach caught fire just as Rodney told Cassandra that not everything Del touched turned to dust.

“Me too,” he said.

“So, lad, had a good day?”

“Yeah,” said Dom. “We went to a few different places, it was nice to be back in town.”

“You didn’t get out much over Christmas,” his dad said. Dom held back the eyeroll he felt that observation deserved.

“No,” he said.

His dad drew in a long breath, eyes darting from Dom, to the TV, and back again.

“I didn’t – you didn’t tell me much about all that,” he said. Dom blinked at him.

“Are you surprised?”

His dad shook his head, slowly, huffing a strained sort of laugh. “No,” he said. “But your mother – she told me some of it.”

“Yeah,” said Dom. That certainly didn’t come as much of a surprise. “You don’t need to do this, Dad.”

“Do what?”

“This,” said Dom, waving a hand at him. “This touchy-feely, heart-to-heart thing you’re aiming for. It’s not you. ’Sides, it’s in the past now, you don’t need to say anything.”

“I want to,” said his father, with such a strange mix of obstinacy and honesty that Dom fell silent and let him continue. “I should have said something back then, once I knew. Said – I don’t know. Something.”

“Like what?” Dom folded his arms, leaning against the doorframe.

“You’re my son,” his dad said.

“Well spotted,” said Dom. His father ignored him.

“You’re my son, I should have done more. I should have taken you to the police, reported the bastard. Or – or driven down there and knocked his fucking block off so he couldn’t so much as look at you again.”

Dom laughed, though there was nothing that amused him about it. “I didn’t need any of that. How about just telling me I wasn’t a complete failure to you?”

“You think I thought you were a failure?” his dad said, eyes screwed up in consternation.

“Well, six years of being treated like your homosexuality is a contagious disease will give a person strange thoughts,” said Dom. He feared that the dryness he’d been aiming for sounded closer to hysteria. His dad opened his mouth, then closed it again. He laid his palms flat on his knees, and spread his fingers wide.

“I never understood it,” he said, speaking to his hands. “That’s the truth of it. At the time, I didn’t understand, and I didn’t know how to ask. It wasn’t you, you understand, now, Darren. It wasn’t you that had a problem. I’ve been thinking a lot, recently.”

“Since you met Graeme and Ed,” said Dom, letting a little of the bitterness collecting in the back of his throat seep out.

“Yeah,” said his dad. “I know it’s been a long time coming, but – I never wanted you to hate me. I wanted you to be –”

“Normal, yeah, I know.”

“Happy, I was going to say. I wanted you to be happy. And you never were.”

“Because you never made me feel like I had any right to be!” Dom took two quick steps into the room, then faltered, unsure of what to do next. His dad had, at last, raised his eyes.

“I know that now,” he said. “And I know it’s too late for me to – to make things right. But I never thought you were a failure, son.”

Dom didn’t know what to say to that. “Well, thanks,” he managed. “I guess.”

His dad looked panicked. “I meant – Darren, you know, I don’t do this, this talking thing.”

“No,” said Dom, shifting back towards the safety of the doorframe. “So please stop.”

“What I’m trying to say here, Darren, is I’m sorry.”

Dom stilled. “You’re –”

“I wasn’t a good dad to you when you needed me. Not way back when, and not over Christmas. I don’t mind you hating me for it. You know.”

Dom put a hand over his eyes, trying to ease the tension headache building across his forehead. “I don’t hate you, Dad,” he said. “But most of the time, I thought _you_ hated me.”

When he let his hand drop to his side again, his dad’s eyes were curiously bright. He looked straight at Dom, and his voice only allowed itself the barest hint of a quaver as he spoke.

“Never, son. Not for a minute. Not for a minute.”

*

Dinner that night was nothing if not awkward. Lofty was shooting badly-concealed glances between Dom and his father that left Dom with very little doubt that he’d overheard at least part of their earlier conversation on his way back downstairs.

His father seemed to have reached his daily quota of emotional expression, and was eating mainly in silence, occasionally looking up to grunt for someone to pass the salt or water jug.

“So, your dad and I are off to see your Great Auntie Marnie tomorrow,” said his mum, resting her fork on the edge of her plate as she spoke. “Do you two have any plans, Darren?”

“Not really,” said Dom, looking at Lofty, who shrugged with an easy smile. “I guess maybe we’ll do some revision or something for a bit.”

“You don’t want to visit your Great Auntie Marnie, then?” said his dad gruffly. Dom looked at him, and decided, with a shock that made his skin prickle, that his father was teasing him.

“I think I’ll pass, thanks,” he said, testing the waters. “She’d only spend half of the visit trying to work out which one of her great-nephews Lofty’s meant to be, and given that she’s only just started believing that I’m not Joe, that could take a while.”

His father’s laugh boomed around the table.

“We’ll leave you to it, lads, don’t you worry,” he said. Dom didn’t want to imagine there was any innuendo contained in that particular statement of his dad’s, and so chose to interpret it as straightforwardly as possible.

They watched the television in the front room for a while after dinner, until Newsnight came on. A stern, strait-laced woman in a navy suit was tapping her papers on the desk, saying:

“In tonight’s episode: we’re looking at knife crime in Cambridgeshire following the stabbing of a young female student last week by a –”

“For goodness’ sake, turn it off, Barry,” said Dom’s mum, catching the look on Dom’s face. His dad scrambled for the remote control, flicking to Masterchef on the next channel over.

Dom threw a look at Lofty, who was doing his best not to seem perturbed. Still, when Dom suggested, ten minutes into watching various cookery show contestants butcher their soufflés, that they should make their way upstairs, Lofty wasn’t hesitant in his agreement.

In his room, Dom said: “You heard me and Dad talking earlier, didn’t you?”

Lofty nodded at once, lips puckered in sudden distress. “I wasn’t trying to listen in, I swear,” he said. “But I heard a bit. I didn’t want to move in case I made too much noise and either of you heard me and stopped talking to each other. It sounded important.”

“It’s okay,” said Dom. “It was weird, but – I’m sort of glad he finally said _something_ about Isaac.”

“What, about wanting to punch his lights out?”

“Well, in the grand scheme of things, I’m almost tempted to think of it as sweet,” said Dom, laughing a little before letting himself grow more serious. “He’s never said anything like that to me before.”

“Like what?”

“Like – like he wanted to protect me.” Dom brought his knees up towards his chest, feeling a tiny burst of warmth above his breastbone as he thought back to it. “Like he cared enough to want to do something.”

Lofty nodded. “I get that.”

They sat on the bed in silence for a minute or two, until Dom’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen.

“It’s a Snapchat from Jasmine,” he said.

He brought it up and angled the phone for Lofty to see as well. There were two photos. The first was of a television screen showing a scene from _Dirty Dancing_ , with the caption: _JAC’S FAVOURITE MOVIE!!?!_ The second was a selfie of the two of them with a filter that gave them both dog ears and whiskers. Jac looked thoroughly unamused by the novelty, her cheekbones sucked in and defined by a frown that was almost a pout.

Lofty laughed. “They’re getting on well, then.”

“Yeah, I’d say that’s a success,” said Dom, amazed that Jasmine had managed to get Jac to sit still long enough for her to actually take the photo. “And _Dirty Dancing_ , who’d have thought?”

“Is that the one with Patrick Swayze?” asked Lofty. Dom gaped at him.

“Are you telling me you’ve never seen _Dirty Dancing_?”

Lofty shrugged, not seeming particularly bothered by his Eighties pop culture ignorance. “Don’t watch that many films,” he said. "I've seen _Step Up 2: The Streets_."

Dom gasped in mock-horror. "Not even the one with Channing Tatum to look at? That's truly terrible." He was already leaping up and heading for the stack of DVDs fitted in on the left-hand side of his bookshelf. He grabbed his copy of _Dirty Dancing_ with a triumphant grin, and turned back to Lofty, who was leaning back on his hands, watching him with an amused sort of fondness from the bed.

“We have to fix this shocking lapse on your part,” said Dom, trying to sound disapproving as he waved the case towards Lofty, who just laughed.

“Okay, okay,” he said. “I suppose I can’t expect to get through my entire life in such an unenlightened state.”

“Too true,” said Dom, and began booting up his laptop. “We are educating you, right here, right now.”

*

Dom woke up in the middle of the night, grasping at the receding edges of a dream, the ideas blurring in his mind as he tried to recall them. A bridge, a lake? The bridge from _Dirty Dancing_ , maybe? Lofty’s face, smiling and freckled by summer sun: that image, he was surer of. Really? He was dreaming what, exactly – that he was Baby and Lofty was Johnny? Dom shook his head, tempted to laugh at himself.

He was snapped from his drowsy despair at his own subconscious by a muffled sound from another room. Pushing himself up in the bed, he heard the noise again. It sounded louder this time, perhaps because he was listening for it.

Dom was on his feet in an instant, and opened his door onto the landing. There was another cry, unmistakably coming from the spare room where Lofty was sleeping. Dom glanced over to his bedside cabinet: the red neon display on his clock told him it was just past three in the morning. Though part of him thought perhaps he should avoid doing anything and let Lofty be, Dom didn’t like the idea of his parents being woken up and asking Lofty any number of awkward questions the next day. And also –

He hesitated on the threshold of his room, until he heard Lofty cry out again. It made the decision for him, carrying his legs over to the spare room’s closed door. He tapped at it twice, but Lofty didn’t seem to wake; he could hear the bed inside creaking as Lofty’s weight shifted, and more sounds of distress.

He didn’t know if he should open the door, if Lofty would feel ashamed or even angry to be found in the throes of a nightmare. But he couldn’t just go back to his own bed and pretend nothing was happening just down the hall from him. Dom rested his hand on the door handle for a moment, then pushed it open and stepped over the threshold.

“Lofty,” he said, to the murmuring, shifting tangle of curls and duvet illuminated slightly by the moonlight filtering in through the landing window behind him. “Lofty, wake up.”

He left the door ajar and moved closer; Lofty’s arms flew up in front of his face, then thrashed out to the side, whimpering. Dom did the only thing he could think to do: he dropped to his knees beside the bed and grasped both of Lofty’s hands, holding them still.

“Lofty,” he said. “Hey, wake up, it’s me. It’s me. It’s Dom.”

He squeezed Lofty’s hands, repeating his name. Lofty’s eyes flew open and he jerked forwards, gasping like a man who’d come close to drowning before being pulled out of the water just in time. His fingers tightened around Dom’s, and they stared at each other for a few seconds without saying anything. Dom felt rooted in place, his knees making indents on the carpet as he remained perfectly still.

Lofty took a few sharp, rasping breaths, and his hands began to shake in Dom’s.

“Dom,” he said. “Dom. I – I –”

“Ssh, it’s okay,” Dom whispered, hardly knowing what he was saying. “It’s okay.”

Lofty shook his head, and drew one hand back from Dom to press against his forehead. “Sorry,” he said. “I woke you.”

“It’s okay,” Dom said again. “Not like you could help it.”

Lofty’s jaw clenched. “I haven’t – that hasn’t happened for months,” he said. “I don’t – I don’t know why –”

Dom shrugged, looking down at the floral pattern on the duvet as he gathered his courage. The dark, and the way Lofty’s hands had trembled in his, made it easier. “It’s just how it is,” he said. “Shove up.”

Lofty blinked, but shifted over in the bed to make space for Dom to climb in beside him. Unlike Dom’s cramped single bed at university, this was a double, and there was enough space for them both to lie side by side without the necessary inevitability of waking up in an uncomfortable, tangled state of embarrassed arousal.

As he glanced over at Lofty’s shadowed face, part of him was thinking that, double bed or not, he really shouldn’t be making this such a habit if he wanted to keep both Lofty’s friendship and his own sanity.

The other part of him, by no means a tiny part, just wished that he could lean over and kiss the tight set of Lofty’s lips until he could forget that his dreams had ever bad enough to scare him awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You got me, I'm going to use every fanfic relationship trope in the book. What's next, fake dating? Vegas wedding? Who knows! 
> 
> Also, the whole 'retching into an M&S bag-for-life on a train' is a thing that happened to a friend of mine. While I was sitting opposite her. Three people moved to a different carriage. It's this sort of verisimilitude that makes this fic what it is ;)
> 
> Thanks so much for all the kudos and comments, they're so so appreciated, I can't even tell you. Love you all <3 Buckle up, because next week's chapter might just be the wildest ride yet...


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dom is reminded of the 'good old days' by Zosia, takes Lofty to a funfair, and gets a lot more than he bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this chapter's a full week and a bit later than it was meant to be - my internet at home's been down, but now I'm back at uni, so things should be back on track now. Warnings for this chapter: sexual references, mentions of therapy, abuse, and trauma.
> 
> I hope this chapter makes up for the delay: that slow burn might just be about to burst into flames...

Dom woke up to find the bed empty. The sheets were rumpled, and still faintly warm. He let his hand stretch out and run across the space Lofty had left behind him. He stayed like that for a few minutes, until he heard footsteps, and the door opened. 

Lofty entered a second later, in nothing but a towel. Dom’s brain told him to look away, and fast, but his eyes remained fixed on the stray droplets of water running down Lofty’s bare chest. His abs were toned, and he was a sight more muscular than Dom had expected; Dom himself tried to work out in the gym at Christ’s three or four times a week, but he’d never seen Lofty there before. 

His mouth suddenly felt very dry.

When Lofty saw that Dom was not only awake but looking straight at him, he blushed a deep shade of red, and his hands went to the towel as if to prevent it from somehow falling off and exposing him further. Dom dragged his eyes up to Lofty’s face, the painful awkwardness of the moment crashing down around him as if the ceiling had just caved in.

“Uh, hi,” he said, hurrying to get out of the bed. He felt Lofty’s eyes on his back as he made for the door. “I’m just going to – well, I’ll go shower, I’ll see you downstairs.”

“O-kay,” said Lofty in a tone of faint concern. Dom strode across the landing, leaving the door to close behind him. His heart was thudding against his ribcage, and he berated himself for it. What was wrong with him? It wasn’t like he had no experience of being attracted to guys he could never have. Why was he so bothered by the idea that Lofty had caught him looking?

_ Well, you did just wake up in this particular guy-you-can’t-have’s bed _ , a snide little voice in his head whispered.  _ That might have something to do with it. _

If he stayed in the shower for a good ten or fifteen minutes longer than strictly necessary, well, it wasn’t as if anyone was going to bring attention to the fact, was it?

They were meant to be working on their revision that afternoon, like Dom had told his mum the day before. As a result, Lofty was perched on the sofa, holding a psychology textbook in front of his face. He hadn’t turned the page for at least twenty minutes. Dom knew this because he was making little-to-no headway on his own revision, instead choosing to shift papers about on the floor without registering the words and diagrams on them, while sneaking glances up at Lofty every half a minute.

He was about ready to grab one of his mum’s lighters from the kitchen cupboard and set the whole mess of notes alight, just for something to  _ do _ . Perhaps it would provoke some sort of conversation between them, or at least a stray observation. They had barely spoken three words to each other all day, beyond Dom asking Lofty if he wanted a drink at lunch, and Lofty replying in the affirmative.

He sighed down at his notes, feeling the silence like a weigh pressing down on his shoulders from above. It was stifling, but he didn’t know how to throw it off.

They carried on for another ten minutes before Dom cracked: he was watching Lofty staring blankly at the same stretch of his book, his fingers occasionally rustling the paper as if he was going to turn the page at any moment. 

“Lofty, do we – do we need to talk?”

Lofty raised his eyes from the book, forehead crinkling in confusion. Dom couldn’t tell whether it was sincere or some form of wilful ignorance.

“About what?” asked Lofty.

“I don’t know,” said Dom, getting the sense that he was wading in well above his depth, and not liking it. “I just – thought maybe there was something – something bothering you.”

“Oh,” said Lofty. He closed the book and put it to one side. “Um. You mean last night. The nightmare.”

“Yeah,” said Dom, relief flooding him as he realised Lofty had misunderstood the source of his concern. Then, he felt a wave of shame follow the relief: of course Lofty was still thinking primarily about the nightmare. Obviously, he wouldn’t still be hung up on a meaningless, slightly embarrassing encounter Dom had clearly attached too much weight to. As per usual. “Yeah. The, um. The nightmare.”

“It’s fine,” said Lofty. “Like I said, it hasn’t happened for ages.”

“Still can’t be much fun when it does,” said Dom.

“No,” said Lofty. “Not really.”

Dom wasn’t sure where to go from here: it was obvious enough that Lofty wasn’t that happy to talk about it with him. “Do you – have you seen anyone? About, well. About the whole –” He gestured uncomfortably, and Lofty’s lips pressed together into a thin line.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I had a therapist. For about two years after.”

“Oh,” said Dom. “Did it help?”

“A bit. Have you spoken to anyone, ever?” Lofty’s voice had much less of a sharp edge to it as he turned Dom’s question back on him.

Dom shrugged. “Not really,” he said. “Saw a uni counsellor for a session, but I hated it.”

He remembered the lanky tilt of the man’s shoulders, the way he fiddled with his pen without writing anything as Dom was talking, and the way his voice turned grave and apologetic as he handed him an NHS leaflet about partner abuse and told him that ‘perhaps the Women’s Shelter might have an idea about where to go for help’.

“I think he didn’t really know what to say to me,” he said. “Maybe there was nothing he could say.”

“But that was kind of his job, surely?” said Lofty. “To find something to say.”

Dom was dimly aware that Lofty had quite deftly managed to switch the conversation away from the topic of himself, but he let it slip.

“I guess,” he said. “To be honest, Sacha was better about dealing with it all. Don’t ever tell him I said that, though.”

Lofty smiled a little. “He’s a good guy,” he said.

“Yeah,” Dom agreed. “Just a pity he can’t dress himself without looking like he’s decided to stick half of Hobbycraft’s fabric aisle in a blender and wear it out in public, isn’t it?”

Lofty’s laugh seemed to break the remainder of the ice that had lingered in the silence between them, and when they went back to their studying, Dom felt that the quiet wasn’t quite so oppressive as before.

*

“So, how’s it all going, playing happy families, and all that stuff?”

Zosia’s face was a bit pixelated on the screen of Dom’s phone, but her voice was clear enough. Dom lay back against his pillows and sighed.

“My dad’s being weirdly nice,” he said.

“Wow, what?” said Zosia. “That’s good though, isn’t it?”

“Well, yeah,” said Dom, glancing at the closed door as if his dad was on the other side with a glass pressed against the wood. “It’s just unnerving, that’s all. He’s booked Mum a surprise trip to Marbella in May, and when he told me about it, he tapped his nose and said, ‘Mum’s the word, lad, eh?’” He did a gruff impression of his dad’s heavy Lincolnshire accent, and Zosia laughed in delight. 

“At least your mum’s getting something out of it all,” she said. Dom pulled a face.

“Yeah, well, the other night I heard our next-door neighbour Graeme recommending her all the natural aphrodisiacs he’d found worked for him and his boyfriend over the years,” he said. “I will never be the same person again. She was taking notes!”

“Oh my God,” said a voice just out of shot. Zosia shifted the camera a little, and Ollie’s stubbled face came into view. He waved at the camera, looking a bit sheepish. Dom rolled his eyes.

“Hello, Ollie,” he said. “So, yeah, that’s my life right now. How’s it going down there?”

It was Zosia’s turn to make a face, before turning more serious. “My father called yesterday,” she said, after a pause.

“Oh?” Dom wasn’t quite inclined to ask after Guy Self’s health and wellbeing, given the circumstances of their last meeting, so he waited for Zosia to tell him whatever she chose.

“Yes, he rang to say that he won’t be taking that vicious little waste of oxygen on at his precious Harley Street Clinic after all,” Ollie cut in. Zosia quickly shoved him out of frame, angling her phone away and shaking her head.

“Thank you very much, Oliver!” She grimaced at Dom. “I didn’t really want to tell you like that, but yeah. Isaac’s not getting a job there. Dad wanted me to send you his apologies – he spoke to some people at Downing and said if he’d known before he’d never have offered him the position.”

“Right,” said Dom, poking at his emotions to see how that revelation was landing. Strangely enough, it didn’t feel like much at all. It didn’t really concern him either way, any more.

Zosia was looking at him intently. “You don’t have to accept his apology, of course,” she said, though she sounded anxious. “He’s still a terrible person.”

“He’s your dad, Zosh, whatever else he is,” said Dom. “Tell him I’m glad he’s decided to do that.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” said Dom, with a shrug. “Doesn’t make much difference in the long run, I suppose, but he’s done the right thing. I guess I can appreciate that.”

“You’re getting soft in your old age, mate,” said Ollie, his face still out of the camera’s range. 

“Pick your battles, and all that,” said Dom. “Just as long as I never have to be in a room with him again. Except maybe at your wedding.”

“Understood,” said Zosia. 

“Pity you can’t take that route,” Ollie said to her. She mimed zipping her lips at him, and he pouted back at her.

“Anyway. I’m meant to be getting ready to go out soon, so I can’t stay on too long,” said Dom, cutting across their silent bickering.

“Ooh, where are you going?” asked Zosia, eyes lighting up like a hawk closing in on its prey. “Lofty’s going too, I take it?”

“No, I’m leaving him behind to spend a cosy evening in watching  _ Traffic Cops _ with my parents,” Dom deadpanned. “The fair’s been on in town for a couple of weeks, Mum’s been badgering me to take him one night.”

“You’re certain that’s a good idea?” Zosia asked, raising an arch eyebrow. “Given what happened last time we went to that fair?” Dom rolled his eyes.

“Wait, what am I missing? What happened?” Ollie asked, sticking his head in front of the camera.

“Nothing,” said Dom, at the same time Zosia said: “Arthur and I found him giving Antoine Malick a handjob behind the waltzers.”

Dom spluttered, and Ollie reeled back, gaping at Zosia.

“Not – not _ the _ Antoine Malick? Winner of four BNOC of the Year contests in a row Antoine Malick?”

Dom spared a brief moment to wonder how many other men named ‘Antoine Malick’ Ollie happened to know.

“The very same,” Zosia confirmed. “Back for a break from his second year at Oxford, at that point. I think you’d  _ just  _ turned eighteen that week, hadn’t you, Dom? And is it me, or did you not refer to the incident as a belated birthday present to yourself, when Arthur demanded to know what exactly you thought you were doing?”

Dom covered his face with his hands, cringing at the memory of his eighteen-year-old self, caught red-handed (so to speak) and yet still ready with a pithy comeback.

“Dear God,” said Ollie. “When I asked what happened, I don’t think I actually wanted to know. I’ll never be able to see a picture of him in the  _ Tab _ the same way ever again.”

“Well, no one is giving _ anyone _ a handjob at this fair, BNOC of the last five years or otherwise,” said Dom, perhaps a little too emphatically. He generally tried not to dwell on that particular seedy encounter, though he could just about admit that, in hindsight, it was sort of funny. Just a little bit.

Zosia waggled her eyebrows at him. “Never say never!”

“Christ, Zosia, want to remind me why I’m friends with you again?”

“Because if we ever stop being friends I’m going to go straight to the  _ Daily Mail _ and tell them about your torrid summer affair with Oxford’s biggest name on campus?”

“Yeah,” said Dom. “And that’s literally the only reason, you know.”

*

The fair was in full swing when Dom and Lofty stumbled off the bus shortly after eight. They made their way onto the scrubby common, taken over for the next couple of weeks by a riot of neon, whirring metal, and screaming kids clutching candyfloss and chips.

“I haven’t been to a fair in years,” said Lofty, looking around at the various stalls and rides littering the field like a kid entranced by the flashing array of colours and lights, and thumping, unintelligible bass-driven music.

“I used to come to this fair with Arthur and Zosia whenever it was on,” said Dom. “Not since before first year, though.”

They queued for the miniature rollercoaster, ‘Nessie’, just for the novelty of it; the carts were painted green with a dinosaur-style head on the front, designed to look like the Loch Ness Monster. Dom felt a familiar bittersweet pang when he remembered how he and Zosia had laughed themselves nearly sick at Arthur’s unmitigated terror as they went through the coaster’s final sharp bend. 

After that trip down memory lane, they went on the pirate ship, and then the Jumping Jack, which had always been a favourite of Dom’s. They staggered away giddy and laughing: Dom placed a hand on Lofty’s arm to steady him as he narrowly missed tripping on the step down from the ride. 

To give themselves time to recover, they headed next for the House of Mirrors, ducking through the entranceway to be confronted by dozens of distorted reflections on the walls around them. They made it across the moving bridge without injury, though Dom had to grab Lofty’s shoulder to prevent him overbalancing near the end. 

Going back out into the crisp night air, Dom almost walked straight into someone. He backed up, an apology on his lips, and found himself face-to-face with none other than Antoine Malick, the  _ Tab _ ’s BNOC of the Year five years running. He blinked, wondering if he was imagining Malick’s inimitable face. Beside him, Lofty had also come to a halt, and was glancing curiously between the two of them.

“Uh,” said Dom. What were the fucking chances? If he’d seen him at a distance, he could have jumped into the nearest queue and studiously avoided looking around, but here there was no denying now that they’d spotted each other. Malick raised an eyebrow, considering, then let out a surprised guffaw.

“Dominic!” he said. “It  _ is _ you! God, it’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” said Dom, shuffling his feet and feeling a lot younger all of a sudden, in the wake of Malick’s collected, easy bearing. “Hey, Malick.”

Dom had been that confident, once – or rather, he’d been cocky: confident without good cause. The past three years clearly hadn’t diminished Malick’s self-assurance, or his good looks. Of course they hadn’t; it wasn’t as if decades had gone by. But to Dom, standing here in this field full of the ghosts of his teenage selves, it felt like a whole different life, viewed through a glass as distorted as any in the House of Mirrors. 

“So, how’s it going? You got into Cambridge, I take it?”

Dom nodded. It felt absurd to be exchanging pleasantries with him, but what else could they do? “Yeah. How’s – how’s Oxford?”

Malick’s ironic smile seemed to acknowledge the surreal current Dom felt was underlying their conversation. “Good,” he said. “Made President of Medsoc this year, so that keeps me busy in between writing for the OxStu.”

“Oh,” said Dom. “Well done.”

“Thanks,” said Malick. “You’re, what, in your third year now?” He glanced at Lofty, and then frowned. “Where’s the rest of your mates?”

Dom tried to hold back his wince. He supposed Arthur and Zosia would have been rather memorable, the one time they and Malick had met. 

“Sorry, I should have introduced you. This is my friend Lofty Chiltern,” he said, instead. “Lofty, this is Antoine Malick.”

He watched Malick shake hands with Lofty, who seemed not to have read pretty much any article on the  _ Tab _ over the past five years, if the look of polite confusion in his eyes was anything to go by.

“Who are you here with?” Dom asked, trying to skate away from the ‘friends’ question Malick had posed to him.

“The other half,” said Malick. “He’s just gone to the car to fetch his gloves. Nathan. We’ve been together nearly three years now. Thought it was about time I showed him the sights up here.”

“That’s – that’s really great,” said Dom. “I’m glad.”

“Well, it’s been good to see you, Dominic,” said Malick. “Find me on Facebook, yeah? The verified account, not any of the fake ones. We should catch up sometime, if you’re ever in Oxford.”

“Yeah,” said Dom. “Sounds – sounds good. See you.”

Malick went in for a half-hug, and Dom awkwardly returned it before they parted. When they were out of earshot, Dom heaved a sigh of relief, and Lofty’s lips quirked.

“An old flame?”

“Sort of,” said Dom. “I – it was before I went to uni, it wasn’t ever a serious thing.”

“He seems scarily competent,” Lofty commented. Dom pulled a face.

“Tell me about it. He’s going to be a big deal one day. He kind of already is.”

Lofty didn’t ask him to elaborate on that, perhaps seeing that Dom was a bit thrown by the chance meeting. It had pushed him back three years, to that transitionary point in time when he was a skinny, mouthy teenager with authority problems, not long finished weaning himself off the established habit of telling outlandish lies, hoping he could make a ‘fresh start’ for himself at university, far away from the stifling confines of Lincolnshire.

“Penny for your thoughts,” said Lofty, after a minute of walking beside him in silence. Dom blinked, and shook his head.

“It’s nothing. I was just thinking how much things have changed since I last saw him,” he said. “How much  _ I’ve  _ changed. Thank God.”

“I think we’d all like to leave our teenage selves behind, for the most part,,” said Lofty, a hint of a smile in his voice. “But I suppose our teenage selves would have said the same thing about us as eleven year-olds, wouldn’t they?” 

Dom smiled back, conceding the point with a nod. It was true – and he needed to accept who he had been back then, didn’t he? There was no use now wishing he could have changed sooner. It had happened, with time. It was still happening, he hoped.

They gravitated to the tombola alley, slowly picking up the thread of conversation again. After Lofty’s disastrous attempt at the coconut shy nearly gave the stallholder a black eye, Dom hastily dragged him off to have a go at the hook-a-duck stand, winning a pack of dinosaur stickers. Lofty teased him at the ‘suitable for children 3+’ label on the pack, and Dom responded by ripping open the packaging and sticking a Diplodocus to Lofty’s cheek.

“You’re never too old for dinosaurs!” he said.

“True,” said Lofty, with a mischievous smirk, wresting the pack out of Dom’s hands and sticking a T-rex directly in the centre of his forehead. Dom tried not to let himself go too dizzy over the brush of Lofty’s fingers against his face; he wasn’t a fifteen year-old falling in love for the first time. 

Dom’s heart didn’t seem to get his brain’s message, though: it fluttered madly as Lofty grabbed the sleeve of his shirt to tug him along to the mechanical swings. 

It was just as they exited the ride that Dom saw yet another face he would rather have missed in the crowd. He ducked his head, attracting a weird look from Lofty.

“What is it?” he said, trying to follow Dom’s line of sight. “Who is it?”

“The guy with the stubble and the shaved head,” said Dom through gritted teeth. “By the burger van.”

“Oh,” said Lofty, as he spotted the figure Dom was referring to. “Not another ex?”

“Yep,” said Dom. “This one’s called Freddie. My life is just one long string of hideous coincidences, I know.” He tried to get into a position where he could keep Freddie in sight out of the corner of his eye, without turning and risking being seen by him.

“Did you date every guy in a five-mile radius as a teenager?” Lofty teased, a gentle sort of amusement colouring his tone that allayed any sense of judgement the question might otherwise have implied. Dom couldn’t help but laugh, even as he tried to keep his head angled firmly away from Freddie.

“All the ones who showed the even slightest bit of interest,” he confirmed. “Mind you, that’s still not a particularly big number – it  _ is  _ Lincolnshire, you know.”

“Oh – I think – yeah, he’s, um, I think he might have seen you,” said Lofty, sounding apologetic. Dom looked up in alarm; Freddie was indeed pushing his way through the crowd, making a beeline straight for them. He averted his gaze quickly.

“Christ,” he said, starting to panic. 

It wasn’t that Freddie was a particularly awful person – he had nothing on Isaac – but their break-up had hardly been amicable, and had involved Freddie getting into a punch-up in a bar with a stranger: over politics, of all things. Dom had absolutely zero desire to make stilted conversation with a guy who never knew when to stop talking, especially when he was the same guy Dom had only slept with for a month, nearly four years ago, while on the rebound from his first real boyfriend.

Freddie was waving now, clearly trying to catch Dom’s attention. Dom looked around as if a place to hide was about to materialise out of thin air, but there was really nowhere to escape to at this stage. He turned back to Lofty, who was still looking vaguely amused, if also a little bit sympathetic to Dom’s second embarrassment of the night.

“Oh my God,” said Dom. “Do something, please. Anything.”

There was a second in which Dom thought Lofty was going to burst out laughing – his expression flickered so rapidly that Dom couldn’t get a read on it. To be honest, he wasn’t even sure what he could expect Lofty to do, or what he’d been thinking when he said the words. They stared at each other for a second, and Lofty bit his lip.

Dom was about to suck it up and turn to greet Freddie with a façade of surprise, when Lofty stepped closer, directly into his space, taking hold of his hands and tugging him forward. Dom went along with it, his breath hitching as he found his chest pressed flush against Lofty’s. He looked up, and met Lofty’s eyes, which looked almost black in the poor lighting. 

Lofty quirked an eyebrow, dropping his head towards Dom’s shoulder to say: “He’s pulled up. He’s still watching.”

Dom shivered involuntarily as Lofty’s breath brushed his neck. They were still pressed impossibly close; though Dom hardly dared to believe it, there only seemed to be one explanation for the strategy Lofty was employing. He tried to remember that it was just that, a strategy – but then Lofty’s left hand curled around his wrist, and he was suddenly unable to do anything but stare, his breath catching in his throat.

Lofty was looking straight at him, a heated intensity pooling in his eyes. “Okay?”

Dom nodded, hardly daring to imagine what he was agreeing to. Afterwards, he would never be able to remember who moved first; it was surely Lofty, but perhaps Dom leant in just a fraction of a second before, his body anticipating what his brain couldn’t bear to hope for. 

Dom felt himself freeze as Lofty’s lips pressed against his. 

Part of him was wishing that it was happening at some other time, some other place, where Lofty wasn’t doing this just to get him out of an awkward conversation. A somewhat louder, less reflective part of him was screaming that he would never get another chance like this. That he should just take the moment as it was, future emotional consequences be damned. 

He shifted, angling his face up to meet Lofty’s lips with more ease. He felt Lofty’s sharp intake of breath, and then his hand sliding up to tilt Dom’s jaw up, his fingers brushing against Dom’s ear. Dom shivered: Lofty’s lips were warm against his, but his fingertips were chilled by the brisk night air. 

Lofty kissed like he meant it, like he was desperate for it. Dom felt himself let go of the last remnants of his hesitation, forgetting that they were in public, that they weren’t in love, that none of this was real. He let himself kiss back, hands skimming through Lofty’s curls, pulling him closer. 

It was like nothing he could have ever imagined for them; in that moment, there was only him and Lofty, and the humming live wire of tangled feeling where their lips met. As they broke apart, Dom found himself staring at Lofty, breathless and dazed, fighting the urge to touch his lips with his fingers to hold onto the searing heat of the kiss, the way it left his nerves tingling and craving more. He wondered if it was so plainly written on his face. Lofty held his gaze for a few seconds, eyes wide and pupils blown, then dropped his head.

“He’s gone,” he whispered, his lips grazing Dom’s cheek. Dom blinked and took an automatic step back, dropping his hands to his sides. He’d completely forgotten about Freddie. He felt a sudden rush of mortification at himself for getting so invested. It had been a ruse, after all, hadn’t it? It was just what Dom had asked of him:  _ do something. Anything. _

“Oh,” he said. “Good. Um. Thanks.”

Lofty tilted his head, his face inscrutable. He said nothing. Dom had always believed that it would be a curse of epic proportions to have the ability to read someone else’s mind, but right at this moment, he really wished he could just have even a few seconds’ glimpse into Lofty’s thoughts.

“Should we –” Dom gestured awkwardly back at the fair, the bustle and screams of the crowd a tangible reminder that the kiss had not only happened, but had been witnessed by anyone who cared to glance in their general direction. No doubt some people had been shocked. But the majority probably thought they were just like any other young couple, enjoying a night out over the Easter break.

The idea that people might think that seemed all of a sudden too big and unwieldy for him to handle. It was all at once such a horrible misinterpretation of what Lofty had obviously intended the kiss to be, and yet it had felt – it had felt like something so much more. It had made it all seem possible, really, truly possible, once more, and it hurt somewhere deep in his chest to remember that it never would be.

“I guess so,” said Lofty, with no emotion that Dom could decipher. If anything, he sounded – apologetic? Perhaps he’d remembered, too late, that Dom had once tried to kiss him. Perhaps he was worried that Dom would read too much into it. 

Dom jerked back a step, remembering that it was him who’d suggested they return to the bustle of the fair. They walked in subdued quiet to a burger van, and ate chips while watching acrobats in gaudy costumes do tricks on stilts. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'BNOC' stands for 'Big Name on Campus', referring to university student who become well-known on campus (and sometimes nationwide) for their extra-curricular activities. The Tab runs a competition called 'BNOC of the Year'. Malick seems like the type to keep on winning it! 
> 
> Also, I love Malick more than almost anyone in Holby, apart from Dom, and I couldn't resist the chance to write him in. Obviously I played fast and loose with the details of Dom's canonical relationships with both Malick and Freddie. Freddie's not really a character I wanted to write into the fic in a major way, so I hope you'll forgive his very minor cameo...


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dom decides to take a leap of faith, and Lofty might just be willing to do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO! A lot is happening this chapter... the slow-burn candle has officially sparked to life! Warnings include: flippant reference to torture, mentions of past struggles and abuse.

It was barely forty minutes later that Dom found himself sitting beside Lofty in more strained silence on the bus home. The bus was empty, bar them, the driver, and a woman who looked to be in her forties with tired lines on her forehead and smudged eyeliner.

She looked a little bit like Zosia, Dom thought, in the strong set of her jaw and her way of holding herself, and he found himself absurdly hoping that Zosia at forty would be less worn-out and overwhelmed by life than this stranger on the bus looked. He concentrated on imagining her inner life to avoid having to focus on his own, but his thoughts soon shifted reluctantly back to reality.

He glanced out of the window into the dark streets illuminated by brief flashes of yellowish light as the bus trundled past each lamppost by the side of the road. He could see Lofty’s reflection dimly in the glass, the troubled frown on his face and the stiff way he held himself to avoid even his shoulder brushing Dom’s.

Back at the house, Dom’s fingers slipped as he tried to open the door. He fumbled with the key for a while, until Lofty said, “Here, I can –” and took it from his hands. Dom’s breath stilled as their fingers brushed, but Lofty had already turned away, concentrating on getting the door unlocked. When they were inside, he dropped the key back into Dom’s palm without touching him.

The house was draped in a heavy cloak of darkness, with all the lights off and only the dim glow of the streetlamps through the cracks in the curtains to light their way upstairs. Dom had the creeping sensation that he was expected to say something, that he should reassure Lofty that it was fine. That he could deal with things; that he wasn’t just a mess who fell apart whenever anything out of his comfort zone happened. That it was no big deal to him.

He waited until they were on the landing, Lofty’s face starkly lit by the moon through the slats in the blinds. Dom looked at him, and was taken over by the desire to kiss him again. To feel again that single, searing moment where their lips had met, and to know that it wasn’t for show.

It was ridiculous. He shook himself out of it, and sighed.

“Lofty, I,” he began, tripping over the words when he saw how Lofty went suddenly very still. He forced himself to keep going. “What happened – you know, it doesn’t have to – it didn’t mean anything.”

He was obscured by the dim lighting, but Dom thought he saw something flicker across Lofty’s face: almost a flinch. But when he spoke, it was in a light, preternaturally casual voice.

“Okay,” he said. “Yeah, sure.”

Dom felt like that couldn’t be it. It couldn’t just be that easy to brush off, without even a quick chat to reassure each other that it was all good. But then, well, maybe Lofty was embarrassed. Maybe he wished he hadn’t chosen kissing as a method of distraction, when he knew –

He _knew_ – Dom tried to push the treacherous thought back down into his subconscious, but it just got louder, until it was drowning out all of his more bitterly negative ideas. Lofty surely knew, or at least had good reason to believe, that Dom had feelings for him. He wasn’t cruel. In fact, he was anything but. He wouldn’t kiss Dom knowing – thinking – unless –

“Lofty,” he said, reaching out a hand. Lofty shied back a step, and Dom felt himself falter. He didn’t quite know what to think.

It would be so easy for him to push Lofty away in return, to be frosty and make a show of indifference to avoid getting hurt. He’d done it to so many people, so many times. It would come easily. But it would be a lie, and he didn’t want to be dishonest anymore. Not with Lofty. He had to try and fix this. He owed it to both of them.

“Lofty, tell me the truth. Just – please. Do you mean that? That it’s okay for it to mean nothing?”

Lofty shifted on his feet, but he didn’t try to move away again. Dom saw his Adam’s apple rise and fall as he swallowed.

“It meant something to me,” he said.

It felt like everything had stopped. Time, the whole world outside, everything. It was gone for that second. Dom stared at Lofty.

“I – I get it if, if it’s too late, it isn’t, I don’t, I just –” Lofty was saying. Dom shook his head and stepped forward. He let his hand come up to touch Lofty’s jaw softly, questioning. Lofty broke off with a little gasp of surprise, and Dom moved in to chase it with his lips. It was a sweet, fleeting kiss, and as he drew back, fingers still on Lofty’s cheek, he caught a glimpse of Lofty’s dark, shocked, excited eyes in the dim light of the hall.

“It’s not too late,” Dom said, made bolder by the realisation that he’d put that look on Lofty’s face. “Not if you don’t want it to be.”

*

Dom woke up to the sense that he was being watched. He opened one eye lazily, and found Lofty looking right back at him. He blinked both eyes open, and hid a tiny smile as Lofty gave a start, and blushed furiously.

“Sorry, I – that was really weird, I wasn’t like, staring at you while you were asleep…”

“Well, you were a bit,” said Dom, smiling more broadly now. “It’s okay. I know I’m irresistible.” His drowsy brain cursed at him for being too presumptuous, but Lofty was smiling, too, eyes bright with relief and good humour.

“Yeah,” he said. “You are a bit.”

Dom couldn’t help himself; he leaned over and caught Lofty’s lips in another kiss – he was allowed to do that now, he couldn’t help but think with a thrill.

They spent the rest of the morning in bed, making out like sixteen year-olds discovering kissing for the first time. Dom couldn’t imagine that there’d ever come a time when he’d get bored of kissing Lofty. He could barely believe he was finally able to do it, and he was sure the wonder of it wasn’t about to wear off any time soon.

Kissing Lofty was nowhere near as fraught as Dom might have expected only last night. It was easy, thrilling, and filled his chest until he thought it should have burst from such a ridiculous excess of sentiment. He wondered if Lofty felt the same.

As they broke apart, their breaths ragged in the silence of the room, Dom thought that the wide, open smile on Lofty’s kiss-stung lips might be his answer. He couldn’t help but smile back, more of that unfettered joy welling up inside his chest. He wanted to ask him so many things. He wanted to know everything. He wanted to keep learning new things, every single day, about Lofty. About himself. About them.

“How long?” he asked. First things first, he supposed. Lofty could have pretended ignorance, but he shrugged and smiled softly.

“Since you tried to kiss me the first time,” he said. “When you were drunk. I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself kissing you back, if you hadn’t been utterly legless.”

“God,” said Dom. “To think… I make all the worst decisions, don’t I?” He paused. “Why didn’t you say anything? After, I mean.”

Lofty shifted beneath the covers, pressing two fingers to his lips where Dom had kissed him just moments ago. “I was scared,” he said quietly.

“Of what?” Dom asked. _Of me?_

“Lots of things,” said Lofty. “You didn’t know about my past, for one. I didn’t know if you’d hate me for it.”

“I could never,” said Dom, the feeling in his chest turning fierce in its intensity. Lofty smiled again, shaking his head.

“I know,” he said. “I don’t understand, but I know.”

“Why else?” Dom pressed, sliding a hand under Lofty’s jaw and tilting his chin up to kiss him again, trying to take any potential sting out of his questions.

“I was scared you’d come to your senses, once you’d sobered up, and realised you were never into me like that in the first place,” said Lofty. Dom snorted inelegantly.

“Oh, wow,” he said, pressing his cheek against Lofty’s shoulder blade and smiling against his skin. “No, nope, still completely out of my mind about you.”

Lofty’s hand lifted and began carding through Dom’s hair almost absent-mindedly. He went on without being prompted, the words coming quickly now. “I was scared – I am scared – that you deserve someone so much better than I could ever be. I was scared of you going straight from being with Isaac to being with someone else who’s just not good enough for you.”

Dom stilled Lofty’s hand in his hair by catching his wrist. He looked up at Lofty, looked directly into his wide, guileless, worried eyes. He swallowed down a sharp flare of anger – that Lofty, of all people, could believe that.

“Not good enough for me? _Ben_.”

Lofty blinked, cheeks flooding with colour at the use of his given name. Dom let go of his wrist and touched his cheek, the barest brush of skin against skin. Lofty shivered.

“The fact that you’re even worried about not being good enough puts you head and shoulders above pretty much all of my exes, just so you know,” said Dom. “The bar is fairly low, I admit. But seriously. You know what Isaac did to me. You have to know that you are _nothing_ like him. You could never be, you don’t have a cruel bone in your body. You’re the sweetest, kindest guy I know. You’re amazing.”

Lofty ducked his head, an embarrassed smile crossing his face.

“You know about what I’ve done and yet you still think that,” he murmured. “How did I get to be that lucky? I keep thinking I’ll wake up in the bed down the corridor in a few minutes, and this will all have been some kind of dream.”

“You’re awake,” Dom promised him, curling a hand around Lofty’s shoulder and using it to pull them nose to nose. “Please, Lofty, don’t. Don’t put yourself down. I _know_ you’re not perfect, you’ve made mistakes and done stuff you can’t just forgive yourself for, whether it was your fault or not. I know the feeling. There’s so much more stuff I haven’t gone into, about myself, I mean. It could send you running straight for the hills. It might!” He insisted, as Lofty shook his head.

Dom let his fingers drift back to Lofty’s jaw, across his overnight stubble and running up to trace the line of his cheekbone, stilling him. He hadn’t planned on spending this time making a speech, but now he’d started talking, he couldn’t make the words stop falling out. He needed Lofty to listen, to understand. How could it work, whatever _it_ was or could be between them, if he didn’t?

“That’s something _I’m_ scared of,” Dom went on. “That you’ll find out something about me you decide you can’t deal with. And I could be wrong, but it’s not easy to stop thinking it. But I like you more _because_ of everything you’ve been through and all the stuff you think makes you not good enough for me. Because you care so much about being a good person and you want to be better, always. I didn’t care much about that for a long time, but I do now. I want us both to keep trying to be better. Together. Okay?”

He could feel Lofty’s breath hitch in the space between them. There was a long, hushed moment where they just looked at each other. Lofty’s eyes were bright.

“Okay,” he said, finally, and closed the gap between their lips once more.

*

Dom’s mum had a knowing smirk on her face all through an extremely awkward breakfast. Dom wasn’t quite sure how she could have worked out that things had changed between him and Lofty, but she had the air of a person who knew something she shouldn’t. Thankfully, his dad seemed oblivious, grumbling at an article in the _Express_ and asking Lofty to pass the jam.

“They think everything’s down to the European Union not letting Tesco sell bendy bananas, have you ever noticed that, lad?” Barry waved the paper in the general direction of Dom, who struggled not to roll his eyes. _Progress. It’s progress. Next thing you know, he’ll be reading the Guardian. Well. Maybe the Mirror._

“Hm,” he said. “Great political analysis right there, Dad. We should get you a spot on the BBC.”

While Barry huffed an appreciative snort, his mum cut him a look that told him she was not only judging his early-morning sarcasm, but was perfectly aware that he was currently holding Lofty’s hand under the table. Dom heaved a sigh. He _was_ , sure, but did she have to make a big deal of it, just because she’d been right all along? He suspected that the phrase ‘I told you so’ was ricocheting around her head like a ball on a squash court at that exact moment.

“Did you have a good time at the fair last night, boys?” she asked, eyes wide and all too innocent. Dom exchanged a sideways glance with Lofty, who squeezed his hand in silent encouragement. Dom’s dad had finally looked up from the paper, and his eyes seemed to snag on Dom for a second too long before he turned away to butter his third slice of toast.

“Yeah,” said Dom. “Well, as much fun as you can have at a fair in Lincolnshire when you keep bumping into everyone you wish you didn’t know from high school.”

His mum raised an eyebrow. “What time did you get in?”

“I don’t remember,” Dom lied, glancing at Lofty. “Do you?”

“Uh,” said Lofty, his eyes darting between Dom and his mum. “No, I can’t – can’t say I do.”

“Think it was half-one, or thereabouts,” Barry said, through a mouthful of toast. Dom froze, casting a panicked look at his mum, who shrugged, a slight smile tugging at her lips.

“You heard us come in?”

“You could say that,” said his mum, as she began clearing up plates.

“If you mean, did I see you necking like teenagers on the staircase on my way back from the loo, then yes,” his dad said with a sort of studied joviality, taking a huge gulp of his tea as Dom choked on his own.

“Um,” Dom managed, when his eyes had stopped watering with the effort to stop himself coughing up a lung. He wasn’t sure, with the amount of blood currently rushing to his head, that he wouldn’t have fainted if he’d tried to stand up right then. “Right. That. Yes. Okay. Well.” He didn’t even dare glance at Lofty, though he took a faint sense of comfort from the fact that neither of them had let go of the other’s hand.

“Well, it was about time, if what your mother’s been telling me is anything to go by,” his dad continued. “And we’re all adults here. Not,” he said, eyeballing Lofty, “that I’ll be giving you the benefit of the doubt as easily as I gave the last one, you understand.”

“Yes, sir,” Lofty said faintly.

“Well, then. As long as you do.” Dom’s dad cleared his throat and turned to Carole. “So, did I hear you say it was Debenhams you wanted to drag me round today?”

“No, love, John Lewis. And maybe we could stop in at Matalan on the way there,” she said, beaming, as she busied herself stacking plates. “We’ll be out till at least half-four, boys. Don’t do anything we wouldn’t!”

When both of his parents had finally left the room after what felt like the passage of several ice ages, Dom dropped his head to the table and let out a low moan.

“I’m so sorry they’re… well, like this,” he said. “I was hoping they’d find out at least twenty four hours _after_ we did.”

“I think they were quite sweet about it,” Lofty offered, failing to fully disguise the laughter in his voice. “All things considered.”

“You’re just happy my dad didn’t waterboard you in the kitchen sink,” Dom muttered, smiling despite himself.

“Well, yes,” said Lofty. “The thumb screws, too. Glad they didn’t make an appearance.”

Dom raised his head from the table to press a kiss to Lofty’s neck, feeling a thrill of desire in the pit of his stomach as Lofty gasped at the sensation. “Me too,” Dom said, turning Lofty’s hands up and drawing his nails lightly along the heartlines of his palms. “You’re going to need full use of both hands this afternoon, thank you very much.”

*

Dom wasn’t sure if what he and Lofty were doing was taking it slow, or racing full speed ahead into the vast expanse of the unknown. He felt that they were swinging wildly between the two poles, aware of Lofty’s heart beating as frantically as his own as they lay tangled together on top of the duvet on Dom’s bed. They were still fully clothed, the fabric of the shirts creased and dishevelled; the top two buttons of Lofty's shirt had come undone.

There was something between them that felt desperate, wanting: yet, without vocally discussing it, they held back. It didn’t bother Dom that Lofty hadn’t tried to take things further – this thing between them still felt so new, so fragile and unbelievable, that every second they spent wrapped up in their own private world, hidden from the eyes of his parents and even the inevitable responses of their friends, was something he was willing to take without expecting anything more.

Later that night, after another awkward meal with his parents, and some arched brows and smirks from his mum when they retreated upstairs, Dom lay beside Lofty, holding his hand beneath the covers as they both looked up at the ceiling.

“How old were you when you first kissed someone?” Lofty asked, out of nowhere. Dom blinked, and slid his gaze sideways to rest on Lofty’s face, still tilted resolutely upwards.

“Thirteen, I think,” said Dom. “She was called Jess. I don’t think either of us wanted a repeat.”

“Did you already know you were gay?”

“Yeah,” said Dom. “I think I always knew. From whenever I first found out what it meant. It sounds really bad now, but she was just _there_. And all my classmates – apart from Arthur, to be fair to him – were bragging about how many girls they’d been with and how far they’d gone. It just seemed like the thing to do.”

“She probably felt the same,” said Lofty, a small smile curving his lips.

“What, you mean she wasn’t utterly enraptured by my pre-teen charisma and charm?” Dom joked. They both snorted, and then went quiet for a moment, till Dom ventured a question of his own. “Did you ever think you weren’t straight as a kid?”

Lofty was silent for long enough that Dom began to think he wouldn’t answer. Just as he was about to squeeze his hand and say it didn’t matter, he shouldn’t have asked, Lofty replied: “Honestly? No, not really. I wasn’t interested in anyone until I met my – until I met Alice.”

“Did you love her?” The words slipped out before Dom could think, and he cursed himself for it. Lofty’s hand stiffened in his, but he didn’t draw away.

“Yeah,” he said, softly. “I did. But I don’t know if, if it was the same. As it was with her brother. As it is –” he cut himself off.

Dom wanted to know the end of that sentence. He wanted to hear Lofty say it.

As if he’d read Dom’s mind, Lofty turned the question back on him, effectively changing the subject. “Have you ever been in love?”

“I think so,” Dom said. Lofty’s next breath stuttered, just a millisecond of a pause before he said:

“You think?”

“Well, I’m no expert,” Dom admitted, trying to make it sound like this was something easy to admit freely. “But give it a bit longer, and I think I’ll know.”

Lofty turned over onto his side in one movement, pulling Dom round to look at him with those intense, dark eyes that made Dom feel, just for a moment, like he was at the absolutely centre of everything in Lofty’s universe.

“You mean that?” Lofty asked, leaning in, his breath tickling Dom’s cheek as he pressed a lingering kiss there. When he drew back, Dom nodded.

“I do.”

Lofty exhaled slowly, falling back against the pillow. Dom watched him, a brief sense of panic making him wish he hadn’t let slip so much, so soon. Who was to say that Lofty had been about to admit what it sounded like he’d been on the cusp of saying? Maybe Dom had just assumed. Maybe –

“You – I don’t even know how to explain to you,” Lofty said. Dom’s head tilted to one side, as he tried to calm his fluttering pulse. In a tone just a few shades less casual than he’d been aiming for, he asked:

“Explain what?”

“How much –” Lofty stopped. He sighed, turning back towards Dom. “What you _do_ to me, God. Just – everything about you. You’re – how are you even real?”

Dom couldn’t help it: the tension he’d been holding in his shoulders dropped into a shocked burst of laughter. Lofty raised an eyebrow, looking a bit wounded. Dom grabbed his hand again, struggling to stop laughing long enough to reassure him.

“I’m – ignore me, I just – I’m the one who should be saying that to _you_ ,” he explained, shaking his head at himself. Lofty’s lips twitched, his eyes widening in sudden understanding, and then they were both ridiculously, inexplicably doubled over with laughter. Whatever it was – perhaps the sheer relief of having found out that they were both, miraculously, in the same boat – they were gone. Dom gave himself over to the surreal humour running through both of them like an electric current, until his stomach ached with it.

“We’re ridiculous,” Dom said, in the quiet that fell between them. He was still grinning broadly, for no good reason. Then, he glanced over at Lofty, wearing a similar smile as he laughingly agreed, and thought that, actually, there was a good reason.

As long as he had this, there would always be a good reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next update will probably be in a fortnight, since I've finally caught up to myself. We're still a couple of chapters from the end, never fear, but I'll need a bit more time to write and edit than I did to just edit and post the stuff I'd already written. Thank you so so much for all your wonderful comments and support, here and on Tumblr. I massively appreciate every bit of feedback I've got so far, so thank you for all being so great!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dom is reminded of an upcoming ordeal, Jasmine struggles, and Lofty offers comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry this chapter's been a while in the works! What with uni and the like, it's been hard to find the time, but it's finally here! Warnings for this chapter include lots of grief, some of it dealt with in a darkly humorous way (that's definitely the way I often deflect/deal with my own grief, so y'know...), maybe a bit of internalized ableism, and some references to past abuse and trauma.

They spent several days in much the same way, and Dom wasn’t sure he could remember the last time he’d been anywhere near as happy. They generally spent mornings and early evenings revising, trying to avoid turning small sideways glances and light brushes of hands into hour-long distractions. Most afternoons, Dom would show Lofty some other part of the local area.

On Wednesday, Dom’s dad offered to give them a lift to Whisby, and they spent all afternoon in the nature park there, tracing out a path along the trails to Apex Lake, where they watching middle-aged men fishing and young families feeding ducks, lying propped on their elbows beside the water. It was a startlingly lovely day, the clouds above them fluffy and white

Eventually, they wound their way back to the visitor centre, arriving a little while before dusk. The cafe was still open, so they settled in to wait for Dom’s dad to return for them at half-six.

As they waited, drinking lukewarm Pepsi Max and looking at the wildlife murals made by the collective efforts of eight different primary schools and emblazoned along the walls, Dom’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then up at Lofty.

“It’s Zosia Facetiming me, do you mind?”

“Of course not,” said Lofty, smiling. Dom smiled back, aware of the tiny twinge at the back of his mind that told him he should have expected Lofty to talk him out of speaking to Zosia. To just want Dom to himself. Dom caught himself before that thought could spiral any further. That was Isaac’s influence creeping in; _he_ was the one who would have reacted like that to Zosia calling Dom out of the blue. Lofty’s response was good. It was _normal_.

Dom accepted the call just before it rang off; over the patchy visitor centre WiFi, Zosia’s face appeared in crackly resolution, but he could still see the grin that lit up her face when she saw his image on her screen.

“Dom! It’s been ages, how’s it going?”

“It’s been, like, five days max, and we’ve been texting the entire time,” Dom pointed out, but his face was a mirror of hers. “It’s all good, Lofty and I are just waiting for my dad to pick us up from Whisby.”

“Oh, hi Lofty!” Zosia raised her voice, waving, her arm moving in a disconcerting, jerky arc of pixels. Dom tilted the phone sideways so that she could see Lofty. Lofty raised a hand in response.

“Hi, Zosia,” he said. “Good to… sort-of see you again.”

“Yeah, the line’s bad this end, too,” said Zosia. “You’re both a bit staticky. Oh well. So, when are you heading back down to Cam?”

“I hadn’t really thought,” said Dom, cutting a look at Lofty. “Maybe Monday?”

Lofty shrugged. “Whenever’s good,” he said. “Monday suits me fine.”

Zosia nodded, then dropped the smile, her face growing more serious.

“Well, I just was thinking, I was wondering if your parents would have me over if – I was thinking I might come up to Lincoln on Sunday, so we could – it’s coming up to a year, and –”

“Oh,” Dom said, feeling Lofty’s small intake of breath beside him, as it clicked for him what Zosia was talking about.

It wasn’t that Dom had forgotten about the impending anniversary of Arthur’s death. He had known it was approaching; he had it on the back of his mind most waking moments, to the point that he’d learnt to live with it. It had let him put off thinking about how soon it actually was.

“It’s okay if you can’t put me up,” Zosia was saying. “I can always get a hotel –”

“No, no, it’ll be fine, you know it will,” said Dom, dredging up a smile. “It’s a good idea, Zosh.”

“Yeah?” she asked, tilting her head to one side.

“Yeah,” he said. “We should go together.”

“Do you think Morven will?” Zosia asked. Dom shrugged.

“I don’t know,” he said. “You know she doesn’t like visiting the grave. She’ll probably just go to the memorial at Downing.”

Zosia hummed under her breath. “I feel like I should give her a call, but I don’t know what I’d say,” she told him.

“What could you say?” said Dom. “I can ask Jas how she’s holding up, if you like. I’m sure she’d know better than anyone.”

“I guess,” said Zosia. “So, I’ll see you Sunday lunchtime?”

“Sure,” said Dom, his voice ringing a little hollow to his own ears. “Love you.”

After they’d both hung up, Dom let the hand holding his phone drop to the table, staring blankly out of the window ahead of them, seeing nothing. After a few moments, Lofty’s shoulder nudged his.

“Hey, are you –”

“Not really,” said Dom, the honesty forced out of him by the rawness of his nerves. “Can we – not do this here?”

Lofty nodded his head minutely.

They fell back into silence, which continued in the car as Dom’s dad drove them home. Lofty fielded Barry’s amiable enquiries into their day, and if his dad noticed that Dom was unusually quiet, he mercifully said nothing.

Dom couldn’t sort through the thoughts muddling themselves up in his mind. Part of him was screaming that he’d done it again. Left Arthur by the wayside for a boy. Another part of him was defiant: why should he put his life on hold? Arthur wouldn’t want him to be miserable; he’d told him as much. Lofty was nothing like Isaac, and Dom wasn’t about to forget his best friend just because he was involved with someone else.

But that more insidious, bitter part of him wondered why he’d let himself get so close to happiness when he knew that Arthur’s anniversary was coming up. Shouldn’t he be too busy grieving to even think about going out with Lofty? Shouldn’t he have been too distraught, after Arthur’s death, to even look twice at Isaac? He _knew_ that it wasn’t like that, he knew that what he felt for Isaac had been a need to escape from the pain of Arthur’s death.

But what if –

Lofty touched his elbow, shaking him out of his thoughts. They were back at the house. Dom’s dad had already stepped out of the car, and was pretending not to notice that Dom and Lofty had not immediately followed him.

“We’re back,” Lofty said, a bit redundantly.

“Yeah,” said Dom. He pulled away from Lofty’s hand, and followed his dad inside, leaving Lofty to scramble out of the car and hurry after them.

 

*

“Don’t be such an idiot,” said Arthur.

Dom stared at him, dull comprehension flooding through him as the bedroom came into focus around him. Arthur was perching on the end of his bed, looking back at Dom through those ridiculous black-rimmed glasses.

“You’re dead,” Dom said, and if it was a bit of an accusation, who could blame him? Arthur gave him a rueful smile.

“Well, yeah,” he said. “Sorry about that. But you’re still an idiot.”

“You’re the idiot,” said Dom, on autopilot, and immediately wanted to stuff the words back down his throat. Arthur raised an eyebrow.

“You know you’re being an idiot,” he said. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“Who else is there to do it, now you’re dead?” Dom retorted, throat burning. “How are you – why are you here?”

“Don’t ask me, this is all you,” said Arthur. “But seriously. You know I’d be saying this if I was still here, too.”

“If you were still here, you wouldn’t have to say it,” said Dom. Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

“Good to know you’re just as annoying as you ever were,” he said.

“I make an art of it,” said Dom. “Wait, is this you trying to make me feel better?”

“I mean, technically, it’s you trying to make me make you feel better,” said Arthur. Dom pulled a face, and dragged the duvet up to cover his chest.

“Ugh, now you’re just making my head hurt.” It felt easy, sniping at Arthur the way he always had. Like they’d never stopped. Arthur was grinning, now, and it made something in Dom’s chest start to ache.

“I miss you so much,” he said. “Why did you have to die?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” Arthur protested, still smiling.

“Be serious!” Dom said. “Why you? It’s so unfair. There’s so many people who don’t deserve to still be alive – but you –”

“That’s not fair,” said Arthur, brow furrowing at Dom’s questionable moral compass.

“Neither is you being dead!”

“No, it’s not. It’s not fair. I didn’t want to leave you, leave Zosh, leave Morven. But I did, so now you’ve got to make the best of it.”

“Make the best of it?” Dom said, incredulous. Arthur snorted.

“Yeah, I know. What online self-help article did your subconscious pick that one up from?”

“Fuck off,” Dom said, without any heat, then panicked. “Wait! Don’t actually, you’d better not –”

Arthur was outright laughing now but, to Dom’s mind, he was starting to blur a little around the edges. His hands were fuzzy when he held them out, but Dom caught on anyway.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Arthur said, but his voice sounded further and further away, as if they were standing at opposite ends of a mountain pass, instead of sitting two feet away from each other in Dom’s bedroom.

“Don’t,” said Dom, and he could feel the tears rolling down his cheeks, his throat clenching in pain as he tried to stop himself. Arthur’s eyes were shining, or were they just dissolving?

“Don’t worry,” said Arthur. “Be happy.”

“Did you – just quote the Lion King at me, you ridiculous little mole?” Dom gasped with disbelieving laughter through his tears. Arthur laughed too, but his face was disappearing into mist, less defined by the second.

“It’s a classic. Listen, though, Dom – I want you to be – I want –” His voice was crackling, like static on a bad telephone line.

“Diggers, no, don’t go yet,” Dom begged.

“– Have to – going anywhere – love – you.”

Dom jerked upright in bed, stomach heaving with sobs he couldn’t hold back. He gasped for air, tangling himself in the sheets more in his flailing attempt to free himself. The room was dark, Arthur was dead, and –

“Dom! Dom, what’s wrong?”

Dom spun frantically at the sound of Lofty’s voice, rough with sleep, at his side. He didn’t want to imagine the picture he was making to Lofty, eyes wild and huge, face red and tear-streaked in the dark. He couldn’t answer. He stared at Lofty, wordlessly begging him to understand.

“Hey, hey, Dom. It’s okay, it’s okay.”

Lofty pushed himself up, shoving the covers halfway down the Dom shivered gratefully in the cool night air, and slowly began to feel like he was able to breathe properly. Lofty sat across from him, quietly whispering soothing nonsense at him until Dom was finally able to stop crying. It might have only taken five minutes, but it felt like he’d been there for hours.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, scrubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to say sorry,” said Lofty. “Bad dream?”

Dom shrugged, clutching the sheets in clenched fists. He made himself take a few deep breaths, relax his shoulders.

“It was just – not exactly a bad dream. I saw Arthur.”

Lofty frowned, and Dom steeled himself for the irritation he _knew_ wouldn’t be forthcoming. It was muscle memory. Stupid.

“Oh, Dom,” Lofty said, his hand brushing lightly over Dom’s shoulder and grazing his cheek. “It’s okay.”

Dom sighed. “I knew I’d made him up. I knew I was dreaming. But he was so –” He broke off, shaking his head. “So real.”

“You knew him that well,” Lofty said. “Even though it wasn’t himself, you knew exactly what he’d tell you.”

Dom glanced up at him. Lofty gave him a small, encouraging smile. Dom still felt too fragile to return it – he really didn’t want to start crying again, thank you very much – but he dipped his head in acknowledgement.

“I miss him all the time,” he said. “It’s just the background to my life at this point. Like, everything I do is at least a bit coloured with ‘what would it be like if Arthur was here too?’ It doesn’t ever stop, but I’m – not used to it, not really, but I just, just kind of get on with it. How can I do that? He’s _gone_. How am I dealing with this? How am I not more upset?”

“You are upset, Dom,” said Lofty, his voice very soft. “You’re grieving. And you’re doing the only thing you can do: carrying on. You’re just finding ways to fit your life around what you feel. It’s okay.”

“Is it?” Dom asked. “Sometimes, I’m not sure it is.”

“You’re allowed to live your life,” said Lofty. “You know it doesn’t mean you’re forgetting him.”

“It just – it isn’t fucking _fair_!” Dom burst out. “That I get to be happy and have all this great stuff happen, and he’s – he can never have that. He’ll never be able to feel any of that.”

“I know,” said Lofty. Dom paused before he could snap that Lofty didn’t know, couldn’t know – because he did, didn’t he? He also had to live with the intimate sense of getting to carry on while someone else was unable to. But, he also lived with the guilt that came with believing that it was his fault it had turned out that way.

“Yeah,” said Dom, trying to steer himself away from that particular maudlin train of thought. “It is what it is, I guess.”

“And what it is, is pretty shit,” Lofty added. Dom snorted. It wasn’t a laugh, not really, but it was something close. It was agreement. It was understanding. Lofty _got it_.

“You can say that again,” he said. He caught sight of the digital clock on the bedside table: it was gone four in the morning. “Ugh, we should sleep,” he said.

Lofty slid back down in the bed and opened his arms. A bit surprised – this was the sort of comfort he expected from Zosia – Dom settled in, letting his back press against Lofty’s chest. The dream had left him still a little shaky, but the grounding sensation of Lofty’s chest rising and falling, his arm slung around Dom’s waist, helped take the edge off.

Lofty’s lips brushed against Dom’s bare shoulder – not _quite_ like being in bed with Zosia, then – and Dom stilled, a thin shiver of electricity sparking its way down his spine. He let himself drift back off to sleep with Lofty’s breath on the back of his neck, and if he dreamt anything else that night, he couldn’t remember it the next day.

*

“Morven won’t talk to me,” Jasmine said, her face perilously close to crumpling in dismay. “She’s not answering any of my calls, and I haven’t seen her for three days.”

“Well, it’s not an easy time for her,” Dom said awkwardly, trying not to sound too patronizing.

“I know, I know she’s missing Arthur and it’s nearly a year, and it’s horrible, but, but – wouldn’t it help if she’d just talk to me?”

Dom sighed. “Probably. But, listen, Jas, she – you’re the first person since Arthur that – you know. She probably doesn’t know how to feel right now.”

God knew how bad it must have been fucking with Morven’s head, considering Dom had been feeling similarly unworthy of relationship happiness after Arthur’s death. Morven had loved Arthur. Still loved him.

Jasmine’s eyes were as wide as dinner plates. In any other situation, Dom would have found it hilarious.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, oh no, oh God. I can’t deal with that. She hasn’t spoken to me since  – I was upset, I shouted at her for taking Jac’s side after Jac got mad at me for falling over trying to walk to the loo on my own.”

“Oh, Jas,” said Dom. He wished he could reach through the phone to give her a hug. He made do with offering her a sad smile. “She’ll come round. Are you talking to Jac?”

Jasmine huffed. “Sort of, if you count yelling at each other constantly as conversation. She’s driving me mad. She doesn’t want me to do anything, I feel like I’m in prison. And I can’t even get out, or go looking for Morv, because I can’t walk to my own fucking bathroom without falling flat on my face. It’s such a mess, Dom! I hate it.”

Dom tried to ignore the tears rolling down her face, leaving tracks down her cheeks – not because he didn’t care, but because he didn’t want to join her. It wouldn’t help.

“I know,” he said, though he didn’t. Jasmine didn’t seem to hear him.

“Why is she so mad at me all the time? I want to practice, I want to stand up and walk and do things for myself. I want to get better. She’s so smug, so _I told you so_ when things go wrong for me. It’s like she can’t help herself! Like she doesn’t want me to improve. She’d do the same, though – she’d hate it as much as I do!”

“She’s not mad at you, dummy, she’s just worried,” said Dom. “She’s not having fun watching you struggle. She wants you to be safe. She _loves_ you, Jas. She just doesn’t want you to get hurt again.”

“But why does she have to be so annoying about it?  I just want to be able to live my life like I used to. I hate that this happened to me! I want to forget it all. I just want it to be over!” Jasmine’s voice had grown frantic as she spoke, until she was almost screaming. When she fell silent, it was sudden, and it took Dom a few minutes to figure out a response that wouldn’t set her off on another frustrated tangent. He tried to choose his words carefully, and prayed his tone wasn’t too lecturing. He didn’t want her to feel like it was her against the world. He knew how that felt, and it wasn’t a place he wanted to go back to.

When had he become the sort of person who wanted to be the person his friends could come to for emotional support? He didn’t know, but, damn it all, he wanted to be there for her.

“I know it’s not what you’ll want to hear,” he said slowly, feeling for solid ground, “but I think things like this just take time. If you want to have the best chance, you’ve got to stop pushing yourself so hard. Give yourself time to get used to it. You’ll get there.”

Jasmine’s face twisted miserably, and she threw her head back against her bed frame, rolling her eyes. “You’re right, but I don’t want to listen right now. I just want to be sad.”

“Okay,” said Dom. He wasn’t sure if they’d been getting anywhere or not over the past couple of minutes, but it couldn’t hurt. “We can do that. I’ll shut up. Let it all out.”

It was almost twenty minutes before Jasmine stopped crying. “Oh,” she said, after a minute of mopping up her tears with half a box of Kleenex.

“Oh, what?”

“I actually feel a bit better. Is that stupid?”

“To be honest, I’d be worried if you didn’t. That’s a lot of angst you just got rid of,” said Dom. Jasmine gave him a watery smile, flipping him off.

“Thanks for the moral support,” she said. “I think I’m going to make things up with Jac. Then she can help me go find Morv.”

“Two birds, one stone,” said Dom. “Good thinking, Batman.”

She rolled her eyes at him, and he tried not to recoil at how bloodshot they were.

“You’re the worst,” she told him. “But also the best. Thanks, Dom.”

“Pleasure,” he said. It wasn’t exactly the truth, despite the fact that it wasn’t an outright lie; he felt drained, almost dizzy with exhaustion, as if he’d been running on a treadmill at high-speed for hours with no water. But seeing her just the tiniest bit more hopeful was worth anything he felt now. He gave her a tired smile. “Let me know how it goes.”

After she’d hung up, Dom dropped back against the armrest of the sofa, his phone falling onto his chest. He stared at the ceiling for an indeterminate stretch of time, not thinking much of anything at all.

Eventually, Lofty ventured in from the garden, where he’d been helping Dom’s dad blitz some particularly stubborn weeds.

“Ugh,” Dom said, craning his neck to look up at Lofty without having to shift from his position on the sofa. “Are you done buddying it up with my dad now?”

“‘Buddying it up’? That’s – that’s not a thing,” Lofty protested, laughing. He leaned over the armrest of the sofa and pressed a kiss to Dom’s lips. Dom found himself smiling despite his mood. “Everything okay?” Lofty asked, gesturing to Dom’s phone, screen down on his chest. Dom bit his lip, shaking his head.

“Not really,” he said.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” Dom sat up, his phone falling into his lap. He lobbed it across the sofa and turned to look at Lofty, who was hovering above him with an uncertain look on his face. Dom waved a hand inexpressively at the space beside him on the sofa, and Lofty instantly took his cue.

They sat side by side, in silence for a while. Lofty didn’t push him, but he had his right palm upturned, his hand in the space between them. The gesture was hopeful, painfully earnest in the way that Lofty always was. Part of Dom wanted to shift away, to be alone with his thoughts, to turn away from the force of Lofty’s sincerity. But not a big enough part to make him actually do it. After a minute, Dom reached down and threaded his fingers through Lofty’s, squeezing lightly. He shifted so that his head was resting against Lofty’s shoulder.

“I’m just tired,” Dom told him. “Sorry if I’m being a bit weird.”

“It’s okay,” Lofty assured him immediately. “You’ve got a lot going on.”

“I  –” Dom stopped, not sure how to put into words the feelings the video call with Jasmine had stirred up in his mind. He wasn’t sure just how stupid those feelings would sound, put into words. “I feel like Jas and Morv have more right to be upset right now than I do,” he said, in the end, and looked at their linked hands to avoid having to see Lofty’s face fall in instant disagreement. “I _know_ it’s stupid to feel like that, okay? I know Arthur was important to me too, but. I feel it anyway.”

Lofty was quiet for long enough that Dom risked a sideways glance at him. His expression was torn, somewhere between fondness and concern, his lips pursed in a way that made Dom want to lean forward and kiss him.

“What?” he said, instead. Lofty shook his head.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just – I’m glad I don’t have to tell you that you have the right to grieve for your best friend’s death.”

“Well,” said Dom, a lightness spreading in his chest at the words, the acknowledgement they gave that itchy, ugly pain that surrounded Arthur’s death. “When you put it like that.”

“Oi, Lofty!” Dom’s dad’s bellowing voice cut through the moment. “Are you coming out to help with the last of these begonias, or what?”

Lofty and Dom held each other’s gaze for a full three seconds, before they gave in and broke into laughter. It didn’t hurt less, exactly, but Dom suddenly felt a lot less like crawling into hibernation until everything related to the anniversary was over. Jas was going to make up with Jac and talk it out with Morven. He and Zosia were going to visit Arthur’s grave. It was going to drag them all through the wringer, but they would come out the other side, because they still had each other.

As he watched Lofty scramble up and race outside to go help his dad with the last of his gardening, he thought he knew that much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed Arthur's dream cameo!
> 
> So, I think the next chapter is going to be the penultimate one... it's all beginning to draw to a close. Thank you so, so much to everyone who's read and commented and left kudos so far - I love so much to hear what people think of this story, and I'm so grateful to everyone who cares about what happens in this AU. You've all been so kind and enthusiastic, and I appreciate it more than you can know!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dom and Zosia visit Arthur's grave, and Lofty receives some worrying news that sends Barry springing into action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this chapter has been SO long in the works. You know how it is: I finished my masters, I graduated, then I started volunteering and job-hunting, and everything else kind of fell by the wayside. But here we are! The next chapter is the final one, and I cannot BELIEVE I've got this far. It's over a year since I started writing this story, and I've been so taken aback and grateful all the way for the amount of support, feedback, and encouragement I've received. Thanks so much for your patience, too: the final chapter will be much less time in the works!
> 
> This chapter has warnings for grief and mourning, mentions of Neo-Nazi violence, and a child being injured (off-screen).

Late on Saturday afternoon, a nearby florist delivered a small bouquet to Dom’s house, with two notes from Morven attached: one was for Dom. The other was handwritten, sealed, and addressed to Arthur. Dom took a shaky breath when he’d closed the back door to the delivery woman, and leant against the kitchen worktop. He sighed, and looked down at Morven’s message to him, printed on a neat little car in a plain font. Despite that, her voice leapt out at him from the page.

_ Hey Dom. I’m so sorry I couldn’t come up. You know how it is, but I trust you to get this to his grave for me. Tell him I love him, I’ll be telling him the same down here at his memorial. Would you read the letter I wrote to him while you’re there? Love you, Morv. _

Dom closed his eyes, shaking his head. He picked up the sealed letter addressed to Arthur and held it for a minute without doing anything. Then, he put it down on the kitchen table and went to hunt through the cupboards for a vase to keep the flowers in until the morning.

*

On the bus to the cemetery, Dom was quiet. He was aware of Lofty's solid, comforting presence at his side, and when Lofty’s hand brushed Dom's in a silent offer, Dom took it without a word, or even a sideways look.

They got off at a stop in the village opposite a little café, a dog grooming salon, and a bridalwear shop. Lofty gave Dom an inscrutable, piercing look. 

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“No,” said Dom, adjusting the carrier bag containing Morven’s bouquet so that he didn't have to meet Lofty’s eyes for too long. “But I'll do it anyway.”

Lofty leant in and placed his hands on Dom’s shoulders, waiting patiently until Dom looked up at him.

“I'll be waiting in that café, like we agreed,” said Lofty. “Love you.” He closed the distance between them and pressed a light kiss to Dom's lips. Then, he was off, waving as he headed across the road to sit in the café.

It was a second before Dom could move.  _ Love you. _ Had Lofty meant to say it? Had it been a slip of the tongue, just something comforting to say? He blinked and shook himself. He couldn't do this now. Whatever personal crisis he was about to have over something Lofty might not have even realised he had said was just going to have to wait.

Squaring his shoulders and turning in the direction of the winding, uphill lane leading to the graveyard, Dom set off. The village where Arthur had lived was beautiful, Dom had to admit, despite the constant teasing he and Zosia had always levelled at Arthur for living in the arse-end of nowhere surrounded entirely by retirees.

The cemetery was no less picturesque; it was set on a slight incline, a tangle of bright wildflowers clustering around the gates. Dom stopped at the hose just inside to fill up a can of water for Morven's flowers.

Arthur's final resting place was midway down the fourth row of graves. As Dom rounded the top of the hill, he spotted the figure of Zosia already at the graveside. Her long, dark hair fell over her shoulders; her head was bent towards the pale grey marble of the gravestone.

Dom slowed, wanting to give her time. The watering can clanked against his thigh, water sloshing over and splashing his hand. After a minute, Zosia looked around: she spotted him and waved for him to come over.

As he got closer, Dom saw that her eyes were red and puffy; she’d clearly been crying at some point. He put down the can and the flowers to give her a hug, and she leaned in to his shoulder.

“Hey,” Dom said, pulling back to look at her. “How long have you been here?”

“About fifteen minutes,” she said. “I was just – saying hi.”

They both looked at the gravestone in silence for a few seconds, until Zosia visibly shook herself and, with a determined smile on her face, said: “Right, shall we get these flowers sorted? Morven’s got great taste, they’re beautiful.”

Zosia took charge of cutting the stems, and Dom arranged them in the flower pot. Lilacs – Morven’s favourite scent – mingled with baby’s breath and a few light pink carnations. When they were done, they stepped back and looked down on their handiwork. Dom leaned in to straighten one of the lilacs, which had fallen to the side.

“I miss him so much,” Zosia said. Dom sighed.

“Me too,” he said, squeezing her shoulder. 

“It’s not the same without you,” Zosia said to the grave marker. “We love you, Arthur.” 

Dom swallowed against the lump that had lodged itself in his throat. Zosia sighed and dragged the back of her hand over her eyes. “Well,” she said. “I’ll give you some time with him. I’ve had mine.”

She headed off down the path to the entrance of the graveyard, and Dom waited until she had disappeared out of sight before turning back to Arthur’s gravestone.

“Morv said she’s sorry she can’t be here. She sent me a letter to read to you.”

Dom fumbled with the envelope, finally managing to prise it open and draw out the letter, which was written in Morven’s neat, small letters on pale pink paper. He cleared his throat, looked down at the letter, then cleared it again. 

“ _ Dear Arthur, _ ” Dom began. “ _ I miss you today more than you could ever imagine. More than I think anyone could. It’s all the worse knowing that, almost exactly a year after you left me, I might have found someone else I want to be with. She’s not you, she’ll never be you. No one could be. But she’s not less important to me than you. She’s just different. She’s herself, and that’s more than enough. I think might be in love with her. _

_ I know I love you. I will always love you. Ugh, I just quoted Whitney Houston. Or was it Dolly Parton? She sung it first, I think. Anyway. It doesn’t matter. I love you, Arthur Digby. And I know you want me to be happy, wherever you are. I want you to be happy, too, if that’s a thing you can be now.  _

_ I miss you so, so much. I wish you were here every single day. I would have married you in a heartbeat. I would have had a family with you. We would have been so stupidly, madly, blissfully in love our entire lives. I’ll always be so angry with the universe that it didn’t let us have that time. But I’m so glad we met, and spent even those short couple of years together. It was worth every second of pain, for all that love. _

_ Forever yours, _

_ Morven. _ ”

Dom tucked the letter back into its envelope with shaky hands, doing his best not to crumple the paper in the process. He wasn’t quite sure at what point during reading the letter out loud that he’d started crying, but tears were rolling down his cheeks in a quiet testament to the moment. He closed his eyes against them.

“You deserved to be so happy together,” he said. “I’m so – so sorry.” None of them would ever forget Arthur, least of all Morven. Life moved forwards, but that didn’t have to mean moving on. It didn’t have to mean forgetting. “I miss you, you silly little mole,” Dom said. He stepped forwards and laid a hand on top of Arthur’s gravestone for a moment. “Bye for now.”  

He walked back down to the village slowly, letting the watery sun and early spring wash over him. He realised, with a weird jolt, that though he’d got used to the unexpected happiness of these past few weeks, secluded in his own private world with Lofty, he was looking forward to getting back to college the following day. To being with Lofty amidst their wider circle of friends and fellow medics.

The sudden rush of excitement, of genuine anticipation to get back to work, took Dom by surprise. He picked up his pace as he crossed the road to the cafe where Lofty and Zosia sat. The second Lofty spotted him through the window, he leapt up and hurried to meet Dom at the door.

“Hey, I wasn’t gone  _ that _ long –” Dom teased, but broke off as he registered the downturn turn of Lofty’s face, the tightness in the set of his jaw. “What’s wrong?”

Zosia had stood too, and was leaning against their table with her phone in hand, wearing a grim, pinched look as she tapped at the screen.

“Something’s happened back in Cambridge,” Lofty said. “Jasmine’s been calling us all. She doesn’t know much, but...”

Zosia’s head jerked in a frustrated downward motion at her phone. “Someone tried to firebomb the alley next to the college,” she said. “Jasmine said Jez was there.”

Dom stared at her, trying to force his brain to make some semblance of sense from her words. There was one, horrible suspicion gnawing through the tangle of his thoughts. “You don’t think the Ellissons –” 

He felt his heart drop into his stomach as Zosia nodded.

“You think Mickey’s family were behind it?” Lofty said.

“Let’s put it this way: I think it’s a colossal coincidence if it doesn’t have something to do with them,” said Zosia, thrusting her phone into her pocket and striding over to them.

“Is Jez okay?” Dom asked, feeling slightly dazed. He was dimly aware of the woman behind the counter staring at them, not even trying to pretend she wasn’t eavesdropping. Thank God the cafe was otherwise deserted.

“As far as Jas knows,” said Zosia. She cast a glance over her shoulder at the waitress. “Let’s get back to yours, Dom.”

When they were on the bus, Dom turned his phone back on to find three missed calls from Jasmine. He called her back. 

“Dom! Has Zosia told you –”

“Everything you told her, yeah,” said Dom. “Is Jez okay? Have you seen him?”

“No, but I spoke to Mickey just now. He’s down at the police station with Jez. They think it was his parents who hired the guy to throw the petrol bomb. His dad’s been arrested already.”

“Jesus,” said Dom. “Was anyone else hurt?”

“Few people were taken to hospital to check for smoke inhalation, I think,” said Jasmine. “I don’t think it went off like it was supposed to, thank God.”

_ Maybe they didn’t need it to kill people to get their message across _ , Dom thought. He decided not to say as much. “Yeah, lucky. Well, we’re heading back down soon, so give us a message if you hear anything before we get back.”

“I will,” Jas promised. “Have a safe trip.”

*

News of the attempted firebombing of a small alley in Cambridge by suspected neo-Nazis made it to the 6 o’clock national news. Dom, Lofty, and Zosia sat in tense silence as Dom’s mum vibrated with anxiety on the sofa opposite. Dom’s dad, for his part, was tutting and muttering under his breath about the breakdown of law and order in polite society.

“Disgusting. They should lock them up and throw away the key. Vicious Nazi scum.”

Dom rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips against his will. Lofty’s phone rang just as the newsreader had moved on to talking about some politician’s embarrassing gaffe. He glanced down at it and frowned. 

“It’s Dylan,” he mumbled in surprise. “He never rings.” He stood, touching Dom lightly on the shoulder as he moved into the kitchen to take the call. Zosia cast Dom a querying glance, but he could only shrug. He didn’t know what Dylan wanted anymore than Lofty did.

When Lofty returned a few minutes later, his face was grey. 

“What’s wrong, what’s happened?” Dom was on his feet in an instant, racing over to meet him at the door. Lofty reached out to grasp hold of Dom’s arm, as if steadying himself.

“Are you alright there, love?” Dom’s mum asked, her voice tremulous. 

“I – Dylan just – it turns out that Robyn was caught in the firebomb. She was with Charlotte. They – they’re in hospital.”

Dom’s fingers wrapped themselves around Lofty’s wrists. “Are they okay?”

“Robyn’s fine, but Charlotte –” Lofty’s voice cracked on the word. “They thought she was okay, but she must have inhaled a lot of smoke. She stopped breathing for a few seconds, they have to keep her in, I don’t know how long,  _ God _ , this is just…”

Dom touched Lofty’s cheek gently, unheeding of the fact that his parents were literally staring right at them. 

“It’s going to be okay,” he said. Lofty gave him a stricken look, his thoughts written plainly across his frightened face –  _ you can’t promise that _ . Dom swallowed the bile rising to the back of his throat, and shook his head firmly. “It  _ will  _ be okay,” he insisted. “She’s being looked after. She’ll have doctors and nurses watching her every move.”

Dom’s dad had managed to mute the background chatter of the TV, and shot a querying glance at Dom as he turned back to him. “Robyn’s Lofty’s best friend,” Dom explained. “Charlotte’s her daughter.”

His mum gasped, clasping her hands together in a silent gesture like a prayer. “Oh,  _ Lofty _ , love!” She looked between Dom and Lofty as if she wasn’t quite sure who she’d most like to wrap in cotton wool and never let out of the house again. 

Dom looked back at his dad. He wasn’t sure what to expect, really. A sigh and an offer of a lift to the train station the next morning, maybe. A fumbling attempt at sympathy. It sure as hell wasn’t for his dad to push himself to his feet and clap his hands together in a call to attention.

“Right, get your bags together, you lot.”

Dom blinked at him, feeling like he’d missed a logical leap somewhere. “What?”

“I’m taking you all back down to Cambridge,” Barry told him. “Come on. It’s only a couple of hours’ drive. You’ll only sit awake fretting all night if I don’t, and that won’t do anybody any good, will it now? Lofty here’ll feel better once he’s seen for himself what’s going on.”

All the air seemed to rush out of Lofty in a single breath. “Thank you, Barry,” he said. “You don’t have to, really.”

“Yes, I do, lad,” Dom’s dad said, patting his shoulder as he passed through to the kitchen to get his car keys. “It’s not a problem.”

*

The car journey passed in tense silence, with Zosia messaging Ollie on her phone, and Lofty staring, blank-eyed, out of the window as the lights of nearby towns and other cars passed by along the A1. Dom’s dad, who usually drove with the radio murmuring in the background, kept it off. Every now and then, his eyes met Dom’s in the rear-view mirror, holding a silent question Dom wasn’t sure how to answer. Instead, he kept a tight hold on Lofty’s hand. All he could offer was this feeble comfort, and hope that he hadn’t been hideously mistaken when he’d told Lofty that everything truly was going to be okay.

The two hours it took for them to thread their way down the bypass and roll into the crowded car park at Addenbrookes seemed to drag on for an eternity. They were all out of the car before Dom’s dad had his keys out of the ignition. Dom glanced back at his dad, who waved him away.

“I’ll be here waiting,” he said. “Take as long as you like. Well. Call me if you’re going to stay the  _ whole _ night, eh?”

Dylan was waiting for them just inside the reception area, his face drawn into its usual, stern lines.

“Charlotte’s  _ finally _ been moved from A&E to the paediatric ward,” Dylan informed them. “She’s been doing well; they’ll likely discharge her in the morning.”

Lofty let out a staggered gasp and threw his arms around Dylan, whose eyebrows nearly disappeared off his face in response. Dom, relief coursing through him fast enough to making him feel dizzy, couldn’t help but grin as Dylan paused, before allowing himself to lift his right arm and give Lofty a stiff, awkward pat on the shoulder.

“I’m going to head back to my flat,” said Dylan, when he had finally extricated himself from the hug. Lofty fell back, almost automatically relinking his fingers with Dom’s. Dylan glanced at Zosia, clearly a little confused by her presence, before his gaze fell on Dom: his brows knitted together as he considered the scene before him. Dom felt suddenly very aware of his hand in Lofty’s, but if Lofty had noticed, he didn’t seem to care.

After a second, Dylan’s lips quirked up in the barest hint of a smile. “I’ll be off, then, unless anyone needs a lift.”

“Dom’s dad’s waiting for us,” Lofty told him. “But thanks, Dylan. I’ll text you when I’m heading back to college.”

Dylan lifted a hand in a silent farewell as he turned to go, and the rest of them traipsed up to the paediatric ward, where they were confronted by a long, imposing corridor lined with violently orange chairs, leading to a locked door with a series of large, capitalized safety warnings printed on them. Incongruously, the wall opposite the row of chairs was covered in framed children’s drawings, all coloured in a vibrant, clashing array of crayon and felt-tip pen scribbles.

Lofty turned to Dom as they approached. He looked nervous again, now that they were there. Dom squeezed his hand.

“I trust Dylan, of all people, to tell it how it is,” he said quietly, as Zosia fixed her eyes on the wall and pretended to be engrossed in a child’s wonky rendition of a tiger. “Charlotte’s going to be okay.” 

Lofty nodded, taking a deep, steeling breath. Dom looked at him – his kind face shadowed by the onset of fatigue following a period of extreme, single-minded panic – and leaned forward to kiss his cheek.

“I’ll be here,” he said. “Love you.”

*

After Lofty had been assured – by his own eyes and by Robyn remonstrations with him for travelling two hours through the night to get to them – that Charlotte would indeed be fine, Dom’s dad dropped Dom and Lofty off outside Christ’s. He told Zosia he could drop round to Jesus College on his way out of town, an offer she gratefully accepted. She gave Dom a quick, fierce hug and a promise to call at Christ’s the next day, then sat back and re-buckled her seatbelt. 

As Dom’s dad heaved their bags out of the back, he beckoned to Dom and Lofty with a jerk of his head. 

“Now, listen up, you two,” he said. “Your lives are like a damn soap opera. No more stabbings or firebombs or any of that nonsense, got it? Your mother’s nerves can’t take it. And it wouldn’t do you any harm to phone home more than once in a blue moon,” he added, fixing Dom with a pointed look.

“We’ll do our best,” Dom said, dryly. “No promises, on any count. Trouble loves us.”

His father reached out and clapped both Dom and Lofty on the shoulder. “Your best is all I ask. I want you both home in one piece for the summer holidays. You boys take care of each other, you hear?”

Dom nodded, unable to push past the sudden lump in his throat to come back with an arch reply. It was left to Lofty to say in a suspiciously choked-up voice:

“Thank you so much, Barry.”

“Don’t mention it, lad,” said Dom’s dad, handing them their bags and getting back into the driver’s seat. “Remember what I said. Our house is yours, too: you’re always welcome.”

They both stayed on the pavement with their bags at their feet, waving after the car until it disappeared around the corner. Dom sniffed, refusing to scrub at his eyes with the back of his hand. He was categorically _ not _ crying over this. Lofty turned to him with a small smile, before reaching out to trace a finger along Dom’s cheek, catching the stray tears that had somehow managed to sneak their way past Dom’s fierce guard.

“Come on,” said Lofty, leaning down to shoulder his bags and giving Dom a precious few moments to pull himself together. “It’s way too cold to be standing out here all night.”

They walked shoulder-to-shoulder to the Great Gate, the towering monstrosity of golden lattice and early-modern architecture that had somehow come to symbolise the gateway to everything – good and bad, exhilarating and horrific, mundane and extraordinary – that had happened in the few short months since Dom had moved in. He followed behind as Lofty burst into the Porter’s Lodge to greet Noel and Charlie and beg for early access to their rooms. 

Once Lofty’s puppy-dog eyes had decimated any opposition to their unexpected return, they passed beneath the faint glow of the formal hall’s stained glass windows, walking alongside the newly blooming purple and yellow irises lining the edges of path. They rounded the corner to be greeted by the familiar shabby grandeur of Third Court, with its gravelly little Japanese-Renaissance shrub garden and the plain, blocky buildings surrounding it.

“Home sweet home,” said Dom, feeling an absurd rush of gratitude for the place, despite knowing his room would soon disappear beneath a frenzied mess of revision notes and chunky medical textbooks.

Lofty laughed: a high, ringing, pleased sound that cut through the chill spring air. Watching his face brightening, its tired edges softening all at once as he reached around their bags to link arms with him, Dom knew that – as long as Lofty was there with him – it was true. Christ’s was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There'll be a little announcement about the future of the _White Knuckles_ universe alongside the final chapter, so watch this space!

**Author's Note:**

> The University of Cambridge is set up as a collegiate system - there are 31 colleges, most of which are mixed-gender (3 are for women only). Each college is like a mini-campus of its own, and is run fairly independently of the other colleges. Students usually live on their college campus, or nearby, for the entirety of their course. Medical students tend to move out after their third year (medical degrees at Cambridge take 6 years to complete). 
> 
> All the colleges listed in this fic are real, and you can look up their websites and maps of their layouts online. If you're in the Cambridge area, you may even be able to visit the colleges listed and look around! However, though some of the stuff is based on my own student experiences as a Cambridge undergraduate, all of the events that take place in this piece are fictionalised and therefore not representative of student experience in Cambridge. So, basically, do take everything with a pinch of salt, and feel free to ask if there's something I haven't made clear enough in the text!


End file.
